


I Know Better

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Shots, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Drinking With the Yarders, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Humor, I promise, Idiots in Love, If I may be so bold as to call my own words humorous, John Watson Goes to Therapy, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Molly Hooper is a Good Friend, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Makes Inaccurate Deductions, These Two Will Have a Conversation, Top John Watson, idiots to lovers, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: Sherlock's deduced that John is dating again, even though John hasn't said anything about it. And Sherlock's deductions are always right, aren't they? He wants John to be happy, but the mere thought of losing John and Rosie again devastates him. Can he prove to John that he and Rosie belong at Baker Street with him?Or, a fic fueled by a misunderstanding that could have been avoided if either of them would talk about how in love they are with the other.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 108
Kudos: 562





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so confession: this fic is literally born out of the fact that I went to get a massage and had bruises all over my back the following day. My muscles felt great (and super sore) and all I could think was what sort of fic could come out of this? Thus this 25k fic was born. (haha!) 
> 
> I don't think there are any trigger warnings for this one. Normal disclaimers apply: I don't own anything, I don't make money off of anything I write, please don't post my works to another site (sharing a link to this is obviously fine), etc. etc. 
> 
> I had fun writing this one, I hope you enjoy it!

_ Sherlock _

John’s started seeing someone. 

Sherlock  _ knows  _ it. John has tells when he’s dating, Sherlock always knows. What Sherlock can’t understand is why John hasn’t told him. 

John has never felt the need to hide his relationships in the past, in fact he’d all but flaunted them in front of Sherlock. But he hasn’t said a word about this one, and by Sherlock’s estimation he’s been seeing her for at least two and a half months. It’s problematic, for a variety of reasons, but what troubles Sherlock the most is that he’s only just gotten John back. 

John and Rosie had moved into 221B just six short months ago and Sherlock loves having them. He loves the constant flurry of motion in the flat, loves Rosie’s little grin with her three tiny teeth, loves her babbling and screeching when she’s happy; it makes his heart soar and his mouth smile so hard his cheeks hurt. He adores her little voice saying simple things like “uh oh” when something spills or falls over and “da” when she’s looking for John. Truthfully, he’s absolutely besotted with Rosie; everything about her is fascinating. 

Which makes her just like her father.

And it had taken him a few days, but John had settled back in to Baker Street and there’s an openness between them that hadn’t been there since the early days. Sherlock had almost wept the first night that John had come back downstairs after putting Rosie to bed, just over a week after they’d moved back in, and sat in his chair across from Sherlock’s. He’d stretched his legs out and put his feet on the edge of Sherlock’s chair, tucking his toes beneath Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock had found his eyes prickling and his throat closing up as John talked about nonsense from the surgery that day.

Their lives had gone on like that, simple and perfect, as they solved cases and raised Rosie, bickered about the shopping and the wash. And Sherlock had allowed himself to hope; to dream that this might be enough for John, that  _ he  _ might be enough for John.

But then he’d started seeing this woman. Every Thursday, like clockwork, he’d come home an hour and twenty-four minutes later than he did when he went to work at the surgery on Tuesdays. He’d be relaxed and settled, the sort of confident he always was when he was dating. 

It leaves an ache in Sherlock’s chest that he can barely stand. 

He's playing with Rosie, but thinking about the problem of John dating again, when the man walks in, an hour and a half later than usual, carrying a couple of bags of takeaway in his hands. Indian, by the smell of it and that accounts for the extra six minutes in his travel.

“I’m home,” he calls as he hangs his coat on the hooks by the door. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Yes, we heard you coming up the stairs.”

“Yih!” Rosie shrieks, either agreeing with Sherlock or happy to see John, it’s hard to tell which. She starts to crawl across the floor to John, who sets the takeaway on the table by the door to scoop her up.

He presses kisses to her cheeks and forehead, making ridiculous (adorable) smacking sounds, and Rosie bursts into peels of laughter. 

John grins and grabs the handles of the bags to take them to the kitchen, “She’s in a fine mood today.”

“Usually,” Sherlock responds.

He sets Rosie into her high chair at the table and sets the food down. “I got your favorite,” he tells Sherlock as he pulls a couple of plates from the cupboard. 

He places a small plate in front of Rosie and then larger ones in front of Sherlock’s and his seats and something warms in Sherlock’s chest at John thinking of him. “Vindaloo?”

“Yes,” John replies, glancing up at him with a soft grin.

Sherlock’s heart lurches sideways in his chest and he can’t help but smile back. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” John says simply as he starts to scoop a bit of rice onto Rosie’s plate, followed by a couple of chunks of chicken that he practically shreds into tiny pieces.

Sherlock takes the containers and scoops out food for himself and then food for John while John finishes getting Rosie’s food ready and getting her sippy cup filled with water. He opens the cupboard above the sink and pulls out a bottle of wine and fills two glasses, setting one by Sherlock’s plate and the other by his own. 

“What’s the occasion?” Sherlock asks as he digs into his food.

John shrugs, “No occasion, I just fancied a glass of wine. It seems like a good day.”

Before he can respond, Rosie throws her sippy cup onto the floor and giggles. Sherlock bends over to pick it up and sets it in front of her once again, “Watson, we’ve been through this,” he chastises gently. “You must keep your cup on the table or you won’t have anything to drink.”

“Gah bah dink,” she replies sagely, with a nod.

“That’s right,” Sherlock encourages, “Keep your drink.”

John laughs and Sherlock looks over at him, his eyes are soft around the edges, and Sherlock’s afraid to name the emotion behind John’s eyes, but it looks almost adoring.

Sherlock blinks, it’s for Rosie. It must be.

They talk about their days, then, John telling him about the surgery while Sherlock tells him about their adventure to the park to feed the ducks. 

“She’s fascinated by them, John.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” John says, and he does sound sorry to have missed it.

“I apologize, I shouldn’t have taken her to the park without you.”

“No, it’s fine,” John says waving him off. “It’s good for her to be outside, good for the two of you to get out of the flat. I was just thinking I wished I could have been here instead of the clinic.”

Rosie is yawning from her chair and she starts babbling at them then, clearly wanting to be part of the conversation. 

“Yes, you’re quite right, Rosie,” John tells her. “It is bath time.”

John stands and starts to pick up plates.

“You go ahead and give her a bath, I’ll do the washing up.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock hums an affirmative as he starts gathering dishes and moving to the sink.

John disappears with Rosie and Sherlock tidies up, he listens to Rosie’s giggles and the splashes of water with John’s soothing voice murmuring softly to her. He can’t quite make out any of the words, but it’s lovely just the same. 

He’s putting away the silverware when John brings Rosie back out, now in her pyjamas. 

“Say good night to Sherlock,” John prompts.

Rosie reaches out and Sherlock takes her hand in his, “La.” 

John and Sherlock look at each other then at Rosie. “Did you just say Sherlock?” John asks.

“La!” she confirms. 

Sherlock’s eyes mist over and he leans in to press a kiss to the top of her head, “Good night, Watson.”

“La,” she says again, reaching up and tangling her fingers in Sherlock’s curls.

John clears his throat and Sherlock’s eyes dart to his face to see what he thinks of all of this, but his features are shuttered and hard to read. “Right, well, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Sherlock goes to sit in his chair as John takes Rosie up to put her down for the night. He quickly wipes his eyes and blows out a breath to try to rid himself of the ridiculous sentimentality choking him. It seems even worse now that John is dating again.

All too soon, John’s coming back down the stairs, Sherlock’s barely managed to compose himself when John comes into the living room. “Well, that was exciting.”

Sherlock hums, trying to seem unaffected, but he's sure his smile must give him away.

John stretches his feet out and braces them on Sherlock’s chair and Sherlock decides he may as well do the same, what is there to lose at this point? So he stretches his legs out and puts his toes on John’s chair. John grins happily at him as he reaches over to the table beside his chair and picks up the novel he’s been working his way through. 

John seems to enjoy the companionable silence as he flips through the pages of his book, brow furrowed as he tries to work out the mystery. Sherlock pretends to enjoy the quiet evening, pretending to type on his phone but he spends most of his time watching John instead. 

Finally he can’t take it anymore, the thought of John and Rosie leaving, of someone else seeing Rosie grow up and of her calling someone else by name fills his veins with this undefinable sort of energy that he can hardly stand. “So, what’s her name?” he blurts out as casually as he can manage, which isn’t really casual at all.

John glances up from his book, a look of clear befuddlement on his face, as though Sherlock’s spoken to him in a foreign language, “Sorry?”

“Her name, John,” Sherlock prompts. “What’s her name?”

“Who?” he asks, looking down at his book as though the pages might hold the answer. 

“The woman you see on Thursday afternoons.”

“The woman?” John asks, voice trailing off in clear confusion. “Sorry, what are you on about?”

Sherlock huffs, irritated that John is playing dumb with him. “Every Thursday you come home from the surgery an hour and a half later than you do on the other days you work. You come home in a lighter mood, more relaxed and confident than usual. Obviously you’re seeing someone, so I’ll ask again, What’s. Her. Name?”

“Oh, that,” John says, waving a hand at him. “It’s a bloke, actually,” he replies easily. “His name is Henry.”

Sherlock stares at him, completely at a loss. Of course he’d deduced long ago that John was bisexual, but he'd always thought (hoped) that if John was going to start dating a man it would be him. “I see,” he murmurs and it feels like his heart has splintered in his chest. He drops his feet from John’s chair and moves to stand up.

“Sherlock?” John asks, looking at him curiously, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” he says, voice strangely devoid of all of the emotions swirling around in his chest. “No, it’s nothing John. Nothing at all. I think I’ll just turn in for the night.”

John begins to speak again, but Sherlock can’t hear it over the roaring sadness in his ears, so he just goes to bed. 

He pulls back the covers and crawls under the blankets and he lets himself cry. He weeps as though the tears could mend his heart and fill it again, but of course they don’t. And when he has no tears left to cry, he curls into himself and imagines taking drugs again until the pain and emptiness go away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Note: This chapter takes place approximately 3 months PRIOR to the chapter before this one. 
> 
> Again, I don't think there's really any trigger warnings need for this one.

_ John _

**_(Three months ago)_ **

John hates therapy. Truly. It is the absolute worst thing and he always leaves feeling worse than he had when he came.

He has a profound mistrust of therapists, of people who spend their entire day listening to secrets and heartache and are completely unaffected by it. Bloody sociopaths. 

It probably didn’t help that the “therapist” he’d seen after Ella had been Eurus. 

Nonetheless, he does see a therapist. Every Monday he goes to see an older woman named Helen who, if he were being fair and honest, actually seems very kind. Helen had taken the liberty of reading his blog before he’d come in when he’d booked his first appointment. Of course she’d known who Sherlock Holmes was. Of course she’d heard about his death. Of course she’d heard about his return. She’d even read the articles written after Mary died, accusing Sherlock of her death when he’d attacked Culverton Smith. 

She’d known the moment he opened his mouth to speak about the other man that he was hopelessly in love with him. And she’d known that that fact tortured him when he was married and even more so after his wife had died and John should have been grieving. 

But all of this was four months ago, in that time she’d encouraged him to move back in with Sherlock (which he did) and have a conversation with the other man about his feelings (which he steadfastly did  _ not).  _ Truthfully, he feels that she is a rather good shrink, even if he still doesn’t quite trust her. 

“How are you feeling today?” 

John inhales through his nose, “Irritable,” he confesses. 

“Why?” Helen asks.

“I don’t know." 

“Is something wrong with Sherlock or Rosie?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “They’re perfect. Rosie's a little fussy because she’s got a bottom tooth trying to push through and Sherlock refuses to do the shopping, but they’re good, really.”

She hums neutrally in response, waiting for John to go on.

“It’s just like there’s an  _ itch _ under my skin." He looks around at the strange, abstract paintings on the walls, glad for the thousandth time that she has art to give him something to look at that isn't her face. "Something's missing and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Have you experienced this feeling before?”

“Sure,” John tells earnestly, “Loads of times.”

“What do you think causes this feeling?”

“I’m not really sure," he tells her, it's mostly the truth.

“What have you done about it in the past?” 

“Got a girlfriend,” John replies with a self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Ah,” she says, in the way that John well and truly hates. The way she says it makes it sound like she understands just what is wrong with him, he grinds his teeth and looks down at the floor.

“I’ve upset you.”

“No,” John lies quickly.

“I have,” she replies evenly, “Would you like to tell me why?”

He takes a deep breath, there's something simmering there, just under his ribcage, something that always seems to be there no matter what, something that's just waiting to lash out. It's the reason he'd come back to therapy in the first place. Before he can think better of it, he opens his mouth and the words, “Why does everyone always think they know me better than I do? Why am I always wrong?” pour out.

“Could you say a little bit more about what you mean by that?” she asks, her voice completely neutral.

John exhales, “It’s just, Sherlock does that too.” 

“What, exactly?”

“Says, ‘ah.’ Just like that, when I’ve said something that I think is completely innocuous. Like he's gained some deep insight about me because of it. Mary was just the same. It makes me crazy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” John spits.

“Alright,” she says and she waits.

She's always bloody waiting for him to talk. John wishes fervently, in every session, that she would just once fill the space with psychological babble. She doesn't. “Why can’t my words just mean what I say? Why do they always have to mean something more?” 

“All words mean something more,” she replies easily. Then she adds, “You do the same thing. Why couldn’t my ‘Ah’ have just been an acknowledgment that your frustration is about your status as a single man?”

“Was it an acknowledgment that my frustration was about being single?” he asks wryly.

“No,” she replies with a small smile.

“Well there you go, then,” John says.

“I’m merely trying to demonstrate that you read into other people’s words what you will, John, just as the people who care about you read into your's.” 

“I don’t read into Sherlock’s words,” John replies stubbornly.

“Don’t you?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“So you’ve talked to him about your desire for a relationship and he’s told you he isn’t interested?” she asks sardonically.

“He told me he was married to his work!" he exclaims. "He told me love is a chemical defect found on the losing side!” He crosses his arms over his chest, “He called love is a dangerous disadvantage and a vicious motivator. He once likened love and marriage to _lethal injection,"_ John stressed. "Should I continue? Those words are pretty bloody clear cut, no reading into them required. He doesn’t feel things that way.”

“John, he said those things years ago or likely when he was in emotional distress.”

“And?”

“How do you know he still feels the same?” she asks as though it's the most reasonable question in the world. As though the thought that _Sherlock Holmes_ could love him back is not preposterous.

“Because he  _ does.  _ He’s my friend, I know him. You don’t,” he says, pointing a finger at her.

“So in other words,” she says, with a small smile, “You’ve read into his words. Perhaps wrongly so. And you'll never know for sure unless you actually talk to him about it.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John all but shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “This isn’t helping.”

“Alright,” she says easily. “Let’s go back to your frustration. Tell me a little more about that.”

“Well right now it’s aimed pretty squarely at you,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her.

She laughs at that, “Oh good,” she says, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Don’t worry about me, I can take it.”

John huffs a reluctant laugh and shakes his head at her. “I don’t know,” he says again. 

Seemingly out of the blue, she says, “You’ve never talked about your parents."

“Pardon?” John asks, a knot forming in his stomach. He suddenly feels a bit off-kilter.

“Your parents,” she reiterates, “You never talk about them. We’ve talked about every other important person in your life, including your sister, but you’ve never mentioned them.”

“They’re dead,” John says flatly, in a way he hopes will indicate his desire not to talk about them anymore. 

If anything, it makes her seem more interested in them. “What were they like?”

“They were like parents,” he says as dismissively as he can with a vague wave of his hand. He looks down at his hands folded in his lap and picks at his cuticle on his right thumbnail.

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Can you describe your mother in three words?”

John tugs at the loose piece of skin that he created, then looks up again, “Why? What does this have to do with my wanting a girlfriend?” 

“Who said it had anything to do with having a girlfriend?”

“You did.”

“No I didn’t,” she replies evenly. “You said you didn’t know the correlation between your frustration and your singleness, so I asked about your parents instead of digging into that.”

He narrows his eyes at her, “Fine. I would describe my mother as,” he trails off and in his mind’s eye, he can see her; tears cover her face, colour high on her cheeks, her curly hair is an absolute mess. He can smell the whiskey on her breath mingling with the peppermint hand cream she uses. He can hear her crying out in pain, he can hear her tears through the thin walls. His heart races as he opens his mouth, “Alone, afraid, and desperate.”

She surprises him when, instead of jotting that down, she closes her notebook and sets it off to the side on the table beside her chair. She crosses her left leg over her right, “And your father?” she prompts gently.

John doesn't want to think about him, so he pushes the thoughts of him away instead. “A fucking asshole,” he spits.

She nods, “Good.” 

“Is it?” John asks, irritably.

She gives him a soft smile, “The progress you’ve made today? Yes, it is.”

“What progress?” John asks, because if anything he feels more upset than he had when he arrived. 

“Well,” she says with a good-natured grin, “What do I know? I’ve only got three degrees in psychology and treated dozens of patients.”

“I think psychologists are full of shite,” John tells her plainly. 

“Oh, I do so enjoy our sessions, John. I look forward to seeing you every week.”

“Wish I could say the same,” John half teases her.

She smiles at him, “So, what should my advice be for you this week?”

“Mmm,” he hums, tapping his finger against his lips, “If the advice you’ve given me the past several weeks is anything to go by, I’m going to guess that you’d like me to talk to Sherlock.”

“Well always,” she replies, “But this is something different I want you to do this week, and I want you to actually do it.”

“I’m listening,” John says, dreading her saying something like go visit your parents' graves or write letters to your parents and burn them.

“Go get a massage.”

“Sorry?” 

She chuckles at him, “Go get a massage, John. Just book an hour-long massage and see if your frustration lessens any.”

“Um,” John starts, still taken aback by her words, “Right. Okay. A massage,” he says with a nod. 

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Right,” he says standing from his chair across from Helen’s, feeling like that is suspiciously easy and sensing a trap. “S’pose I’ll see you next week, then.”

She stands and reaches out to shake his hand, “Yes, you will.”

John leaves, still puzzling over her advice and he pulls out his phone as he flags down a cab. He gives the cabbie the Baker Street address as he types in  _ massage near me.  _

He clicks on the first one that comes up and sees it has a discount for first-time customers, with a shrug he dials the number. 

A pleasant voice comes over the line, “Zen massage, how can I help you?”

“Yes, hi,” John says, “I would like to schedule an appointment.”

“When did you have in mind, sir?”

“Umm,” John swallows, he hadn’t looked at his calendar, “Do you have anything Tuesday or Thursday evening this week?” he asks, thinking it would be easy to just go after work.

“I have a 4:00pm on Thursday with Henry, would that work for you?”

“Yeah,” John replies, thinking he’ll have to leave the surgery about ten minutes early, but that shouldn’t be a problem. “4:00 on Thursday sounds good.” 

He gives the woman his information and hangs up. As the cab is pulling up to Baker Street he wonders what exactly he’s gotten himself signed up for. 

\------------

By the time the appointment rolls around three days later, John’s come very close to calling to cancel the appointment multiple times but manages to keep it anyway by forcing himself to think about the frustration in the pit of his belly. That and imaging the satisfaction he will get from telling Helen that he did what she asked and seeing the shock on her face. 

But as he sits in the waiting area of Zen Massage, he’s pretty sure he’s made a mistake. They’d given him a form to fill out about his Massage Preferences and if that is any indication of how this massage appointment is going to go, he ought to get up and walk out right now.

**Name:** _John Watson_

**What sort of pressure do you prefer?** _Unsure._

**Do you have any allergies?** _~~Cottonwood Trees~~ No._

**Do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of (i.e. Hypertension, pregnancy, etc.)?** _No._

**Are there any places on your body that you do not feel comfortable being touched? (Our masseur will not touch your groin or breasts.)** ~~_My feet?_ ~~ _I don't know._

**Any injuries we should be aware of?** _I was shot in the shoulder almost 8 years ago._

That question alone is almost enough to make him head out the door and never look back.

He is, in fact, about to stand up and leave when a man walks into the waiting room, “John?”

“Yes,” John says before he can think it through. He mentally berates himself even as he turns and the other man approaches him.

“Hi, I’m Henry, I’m your masseur today.” He smiles warmly at John and holds out his hand. 

John takes his hand, the other man has a firm handshake and his eyes are warm and kind. 

“Nice to meet you," he says affably, "If you’d like to come this way, we’ll get started.”

John follows him down the hallway and into a room with dim lighting. Everything in the room is crisp and clean from the cream walls to the cot laying in the middle.

“Have you ever had a massage before?” Henry asks.

“As part of PT,” John bites out. He doesn’t mean to be short, he just can’t seem to stop himself.

Henry just nods, “Alright. This’ll probably be a bit different than that.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll check in with you as we go, then, and you can just tell me how the pressure feels. Any areas I should avoid? What kind of massage were you thinking? Full body, upper body, just back and shoulders?”

“I was shot in my right shoulder,” John says, his voice feels a bit tight. “But maybe just focus on shoulders and back today, yeah?”

“Sure,” Henry replies easily, completely unruffled by John's less than stellar attitude. “Great. Well, I’ll just pop out. You undress to your comfort level then lay down on the bed on your stomach. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

John waits for the door to click shut then he undresses quickly, regretting this decision every step of the way. He strips down to his pants and quickly folds his clothes before slipping into the bed, covering up with the sheet and blanket. 

A few minutes later there’s a soft knock at the door and then the door opens and the lights dim further. He turns to look at Henry, feeling vulnerable, and tense, and embarrassed. 

“You can just relax,” Henry tells him encouragingly as he steps up to John’s head and eases it into the weird circle pillow. “Some people like to chat while they have a massage, if you’d like we can chat. Otherwise, silence is good, too.”

“Do you have a preference?” John asks. 

“It’s up to you, really,” Henry says easily and John hears a pump of lotion or something before warm fingers are gliding over his neck. 

The sensation sparks something in the pit of John’s belly and he sighs. Henry combs his fingers through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, pressing up and down and setting John’s fingers tingling. He sighs again and feels his body relax minutely. 

Henry moves from his hair to his neck, then shoulders and John’s mind starts to drift. He’s floating along on sensations alone and it feels like he’s left his body entirely. He lets out a shuddering breath as Henry’s hands move over his shoulders, “Let me know if it’s too much pressure, especially on your right shoulder.”

“Okay,” John breathes. 

And that’s the last time Henry speaks to him as he works away at John’s back. Sometimes there is pain so acute that John thinks he won’t be able to stand it, but then something loosens or Henry changes the way his hands are moving and it stops hurting. For the most part, though, it just feels spectacular. 

Finally, Henry smoothes his hand up John’s spine, and murmurs, “How do you feel?”

“Good,” John says, voice slightly slurred. “Yeah, really good.”

“Good,” Henry replies, his voice still soft. “You have a lot of tension in your shoulders and neck. I’d suggest more regular stretching at home, yeah? Do you do a lot of lifting things?”

John nods, head feeling light and fuzzy like he’s drunk. “I have an eighteen-month-old.”

Henry’s fingers trail through the hair at the nape of his neck again and John represses a shudder. “That will do it,” he replies. “Alright, I’m going to go out and get you a bottle of water. Make sure you stretch before you get up and don’t sit up too quickly. I’ll meet you out in the hall when you are ready. Take your time, alright?”

“Sure,” John replies. 

He hears the door click shut behind him and just lays there for a moment. He breathes in and then breathes out, then he starts to stretch. After a few moments he sits up, and his head feels even more as though it's not attached to his body. He groans as he presses his arms up over his head, reaching toward the ceiling. His muscles ache in the way they do after a good work out (or after particularly good sex). 

He gets dressed and heads out of the room to find Henry leaning against the wall with a bottle of water in his hand. He looks up when John emerges and gives him a smile as he hands him the bottle of water. “Drink a lot of water today, yes?”

John nods.

“It was nice to meet you, John,” Henry says and it sounds sincere, even though John is sure that he must say that to all of his clients. 

“Yeah, you too,” John replies. Shaking the proffered hand once more. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” the other man replies with a smile. 

And John will never quite be sure how it happened, if it’s the endorphins flowing through his system, the relief from the massage, or something else entirely, but by the time John leaves, he has a membership and an appointment to see Henry the following week. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, everyone! Thank you for all of the kind words and the kudos! They totally make my day (week, month, year, life, etc) <3
> 
> We're back to the present again in this chapter. :) Enjoy!

_ Sherlock _

**_Present_ **

Sherlock tries to let everything go back to normal after John's proclamation that he's dating a man named Henry, but it feels like there is a gauntlet hanging over his head. Every time he holds Rosie, he wonders if it might be the last. Every night that he and John sit and talk or just sit together in companionable silence, he wonders how much longer it will be before John will move out again. 

And perhaps it was all a bit more melodramatic than he needs to be, but he can’t seem to help himself. 

The bourbon he and John have consumed in celebration of the case they’d just solved doesn’t help him either. 

John, on the other hand, is a completely different story. John is giggly and flushed, his smile is big and bright and the corners of his eyes have scrunched in a way that makes Sherlock’s heart clench in his chest. He’s smiling at Sherlock like he’s the sun and Sherlock aches with it. 

“You’re brilliant!” John slurs at him. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock hums in reply and takes another sip of his bourbon. 

“Did you see that guy’s face?” John asks and he giggles again. “He was so shocked,” John opens his mouth in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. “Have you ever seen anyone’s mouth open like that when they were actually surprised?” Then John is giggling again, swaying dangerously on the barstool next to Sherlock. 

Sherlock tries to steady him, but Lestrade somehow appears at that moment and claps John and Sherlock on the shoulders on his way past, shouting something at Donovan. John tips out of his chair, slamming into Sherlock and grasping his thigh (quite higher than Sherlock is comfortable with) to steady himself. 

John looks down at his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, then up at Sherlock’s face, which is mere inches from his at this point. “I don’t mind,” John breathes. 

Sherlock can feel his warm breath tickling over his lips, can smell the alcohol John’s consumed, can see the way his pupils dilate sharply as they take in Sherlock’s face. He can barely think, barely breathe, with John this close. 

But then John stumbles (over literally nothing, he’s just completely pissed) and the contact is broken. 

“Steady on, soldier,” Sherlock says, reaching out to help him back onto his stool, his heart still beating a bit more erratically than it out to be. 

“You’ve got really pretty eyes,” John tells him, staring at him with an unveiled longing that sends a shiver up Sherlock’s spine. 

Then, just as quickly as the look was there, it’s gone and John turns and waves down the bartender. “Shots!” he declares. “A round for everyone on us!” he shouts, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. And Sherlock can’t blame him, they’d collaborated with the MET, but the clients had been theirs initially and they’d found themselves being handed a check for a quarter of a million pounds. 

There’s a cheer around the bar and people are surrounding them, patting them on the backs and shoulders as they reach around and over them for the shots the bartender is handing out. Sherlock feels claustrophobic. He hates all of these people crowded around him and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t agreed to go out with all of them for drinks. 

How is he meant to give this up? How is he meant to live through John leaving him again?

His chest aches and he is startled to realize that he has tears in his eyes. He blindly pushes through the throngs of people around them and staggers outside into the alley on the other side of the building. He leans against the wall and breathes through the emotions choking him. 

A moment later there’s another body leaning against the wall beside him. His initial thought is that it’s John, but John would already be talking to him, especially in his current state of inebriation. 

Lestrade, then. 

“What?” Sherlock asks him.

He can hear Lestrade shrug, the shoulders of his jacket scraping against the wall. “Nothin’” he says casually. “Just checking on you.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replies tersely. 

Lestrade says nothing for a moment, then, “You and John seemed cozy tonight.”

At this, Sherlock’s eyes pop open and his head snaps up to look at Lestrade, “Excuse me?”

The other man shrugs innocently, “You two just seem very close, is all. It’s nice,” he adds, holding up his hands to ward off whatever Sherlock might have been about to say. “Reminds me of the old days. Seems like the two of you have finally managed to sort out some of your shite.”

“'Some' being the operative word in that sentence,” Sherlock remarks and even he can hear the bitterness in his voice.

They’re quiet for a few moments, Lestrade takes a breath as though he's about to say something, then blows it out. He clears his throat and repeats the process of breathing in to speak, then exhaling again.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” Sherlock snaps.

“It’s just,” Lestrade rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I was never  _ sure _ until the wedding.”

“Sure of what?” Sherlock asks, definitely not liking the direction this is heading.

“That you were in love with him.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but Lestrade holds up a hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t lie to me, there’s no point. Your secret is safe with me and every other person who has eyes.” 

He gives up the pretense, despite what he may say, Lestrade isn’t stupid. “It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says softly, the alcohol amplifying the defeated feeling heavy in his stomach.

“Why?”

“Because he’ll never feel the same.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John. He doesn’t feel that way about me, and if he hasn’t by now, he never will.”

Lestrade is silent for a moment, “You think  _ John  isn’t in love with you?” _

“Of course he’s not.”

There's another pregnant pause before Lestrade mutters, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replies with a sniff. “I deduce things like romantic attraction for a living, Lestrade,” he says as he pushes away from the wall. “If John Watson was in love with me, I would know,” he adds as he walks past him and back into the bar. 

He steps through the door and then freezes as his eyes catch sight of John. Sally Donovan is laid out across a table, her shirt pulled up to reveal her stomach, and as he watches John licks a circle around her belly button before closing his lips over it and sucking amid raucous cheers from the yarders. 

Lestrade has moved around him to see what had pulled Sherlock up short. He laughs out loud, his eyes crinkling in mirth. “I haven’t seen anyone do body shots since Uni.” 

He makes his way over and Sherlock watches in horrified fascination as Lestrade pushes Sally over off the table, laughter and cheers erupting around them, as he takes a shot out of one of the detective's hands and lays down. He winks at Sherlock and hands it to John as he untucks his shirt. 

John laughs, “Aren’t I pissed enough already?” 

“Not by half,” Lestrade replies cheekily. “Not too old, are you?”

John laughs again, that bright, uninhibited sound that makes Sherlock feel like he’s floating and John hands Greg the lime to hold as he pours the shot into Lestrade’s belly button and rings it with salt. 

Sherlock watches as John repeats the same process with Lestrade as he had with Donovan, his tongue dragging over the salt before he latches his mouth around Lestrade’s belly button and hollows his cheeks. He quickly sucks the lime and swallows before letting out a sound that is reminiscent of a lion cub learning to roar. “Rrrroow,” he finishes as the yarders start to cheer. 

“Alright, Holmes,” Donovan shouts, and Sherlock realizes with no small amount of terror that his feet have drifted so he’s standing near the crowd. “Your turn.”

It seems in unison all eyes turn to him and everyone is nodding and laughing. 

“Uh, no,” he says inelegantly. “Definitely not.”

“Oh come on,” Lestrade says, standing up and gesturing toward the table. “John needs at least a few more shots.”

And he’ll never know who started it, but from somewhere in the back someone’s started chanting “Sher-lock, Sher-lock" and in a matter of seconds the entire bar is chanting his name. It’s like he’s having a bad flashback to primary school gym class trying to play cricket and failing dismally.

He looks at John desperately, but John is just grinning at him, his eyes warm and happy. John gestures to the table in obvious invitation. 

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry and the chanting gets louder and he succumbs. He takes a shot glass from the detective next to him and swallows it down as he stalks over to the table and the bar erupts in cheering. He lays himself out on the table and starts to untuck his shirt. This is a horrible idea, and he can’t imagine what’s possessed him to do it. But the thought freezes in his mind when John’s fingers brush across the skin on his stomach to push his shirt out of the way. 

“Do a double,” one of the young forensicists insists as he holds out two shots of tequila. “He’s got the perfect suprasternal notch for it.”

Sherlock’s fingers come up to flutter at the base of his throat for a moment, imagining John’s lips there. 

John leans in close to him then, “Is that alright?” John murmurs, then he adds, “We don’t have to do this.”

The blue of his eyes is deep and warm and for a moment Sherlock is sure that he is drowning in it. He clears his throat and says, “Don’t be absurd, John, it’s fine.” 

John quirks a grin at him, before turning to the crowd like the drama queen he is, “Alright,” he shouts over the din, “But these are the last two, then you lot have to bloody learn how to do body shots yourselves.”

The crowd cheers and Sherlock finds himself wishing the bar would catch on fire or they might all get called out on a case, anything to get him out of this situation. Then suddenly it’s too late.

John pours the shot into his belly button first and rings it with salt. The liquid is cold and Sherlock fights the impulse to squirm. John licks his lips and stares at Sherlock’s quivering belly for a moment longer than perhaps he ought to and if Sherlock didn’t know any better he might say there are signs of arousal in his gaze. But it passes and he moves up Sherlock’s body to his throat. “Tilt your head back just a bit,” he instructs his voice like honey in Sherlock’s ears and thick in his veins.

Sherlock obeys without a thought. 

“Don’t move, okay?” John murmurs, “Wouldn’t want to ruin your lovely shirt.”

“Alright,” Sherlock breathes as the shot is poured into the divot at the base of his neck. He sucks in a breath at the cold but remains still otherwise. John sprinkles a touch more salt on his skin. 

Then Lestrade is at his shoulder, grinning wickedly, and the pit of Sherlock’s stomach fills with dread. “Open your mouth.”

“I-“ Sherlock starts, then stops when he feels the alcohol in the divot of his neck trickle a drip down to his collar.

John reaches across Sherlock and takes the lime slice from Lestrade’s hand, “Open for me?” John requests and something in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach stirs at that and he figures he’d better do as he’s asked before he’s left in a very awkward position indeed.

With an eye roll he opens his lips and John’s right-hand cups his cheeks as his left-hand settles the lime between his lips. 

If the cheering surrounding them had been loud before, it’s practically deafening now. Some people are just screaming, others are chanting John’s name, it’s complete chaos. Sherlock spares a moment’s hope that there aren’t any journalists here, he can’t imagine how pissed off John will be in the morning if this somehow ended up in the papers.

“Ready?” John asks and Sherlock blinks, unable to do anything else. 

Then, it’s as though they’ve been thrust into a vacuum and all of the sound vanishes the instant John’s tongue drags through the salt, swirling around his naval and it takes everything in Sherlock not to arch into that sensation. John’s lips close around his belly button and then he sucks. A sound slips from Sherlock’s throat, it might be a groan, might be a whimper, he’s not entirely sure because the lime is, thankfully, blocking that. 

John’s nose skims up Sherlock’s chest on his way to his throat, then his tongue is on his neck, licking up the salt before his lips lock around his suprasternal notch and John sucks again. Sherlock can’t help but arch now, his head tilting back and exposing more of his throat as his spine lifts slightly off the table. 

An instant later, John’s mouth is on his and Sherlock stops breathing, John’s fingers curl into the hair at the base of Sherlock’s neck and his tongue flicks out along Sherlock’s bottom lip as he sucks the lime from Sherlock's mouth and into his own. 

Then he’s gone and the sound rushes back in; there is wild cheering and catcalling and for a moment he’s completely disoriented, whether it's because of the noise or the things John has just done to his body, Sherlock is not entirely sure. When he’s caught his breath he opens his eyes to see that John is grinning and taking a bow before gesturing to Sherlock’s prone form and clapping as though Sherlock has been a marvelous assistant in a magic trick. 

Sherlock feels like he’s in a daze as he sits up and tugs his shirt into place. When he stands, John’s left arm wraps around his back and the crowd disperses a bit, a few people moving to do body shots of their own. “I’m so drunk,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s shoulder where he’s leaned, probably so he can remain standing. 

“Do you want to go home?”

John looks up at him and Sherlock is caught in his gaze, drowning once again in the deep waters that make up John Watson's eyes. John licks his lower lip and Sherlock’s eyes are drawn down to the movement. “Yes,” John breathes and Sherlock forgets for a moment that he’d asked a question and John is likely just responding. 

He comes back to himself just before dipping down to kiss the other man. “Right, home.” 

They head out, waving all of the yarders good night on their way, John still leans heavily against Sherlock, his feet stumbling slightly. “Steady on,” Sherlock says.

John giggles, then starts to laugh again, “Oh,” he manages through his laughter, “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” 

Sherlock laughs with him, but the memory of John’s lips on his skin is permanently branded into his brain, and laughter would not have been his first inclination. He hails a cab and manages to get John into it. 

When they get home, Sherlock pays the cabbie before they climb out and Sherlock helps the other man up the steps. Once they’re inside Sherlock turns to lock the door but when he turns back, John is a mere six inches away from him, staring at him. “John, wha-“ Sherlock starts before John’s lips are on his. 

And Sherlock can’t think. Can’t remember the reasons why this is a terrible idea. His lips part and John’s tongue slides in. The groan that had tried to find its way out of his throat at the bar, manages now and John moans in reply. John’s hands find his curls and Sherlock’s hands find John’s hips, then his back to draw him in closer. 

It’s only a moment before John is pulling away and Sherlock’s lips blindly follow after him. John groans and he tugs at Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock whimpers in reply and his hips thrust against John’s. 

“Sherlock,” John groans. Then, “Sherlock,” murmured with utmost reverence like it’s some sort of prayer. John tears his mouth away, “Upstairs,” he gasps. “Please.”

Sherlock nods dumbly and the two of them stumble up the stairs together, tripping over each other. Once they’re through the door John starts tearing at Sherlock’s clothes, yanking his suit coat off his shoulders as their lips find one another’s again. They stagger through the flat, slamming one another against walls in their haste to get the other naked and make it to Sherlock’s room. 

By the time they hit the bed, they’re both stripped bare. John presses Sherlock to the bed, his body moving over his as his tongue does fantastic things inside his mouth. Sherlock cries out as John’s hands fist in his hair again. 

John’s lips move to the side of Sherlock’s mouth, sliding down his cheek to his jaw, then sloppily down his neck, “John,” he cries, back arching up. John groans in response and sucks at the sensitive skin just below Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock cries out and John keeps moving down Sherlock’s body, licking and sucking and biting, and Sherlock writhes beneath him. 

Then John’s mouth finds one of his nipples and Sherlock arches off the bed like he’s been electrocuted. “Fuck,” he bites out. His cock is harder than it’s ever been in his life and he positively  _ aches.  _

John groans and sucks at Sherlock’s nipple, drawing it into his mouth and flicking his tongue over it. Sherlock’s fingers spasm in John’s hair at the sensation. “More,” he begs and John switches to the other nipple and his fingers come up to toy with the one he’s just left. He drags the flat of his tongue over Sherlock’s nipple, then traces a light circle with the tip of his tongue.

“Please, John.” 

John sucks it into his mouth and the sensation goes straight to Sherlock’s cock, which John must be able to feel twitching against his hip. John growls low in his throat and it’s the sexiest thing that Sherlock has ever heard. “Jo-” he starts but it’s cut off by the high, keening sound that escapes his throat when John bites down on the sensitive tissue in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s hands have come up to fist in his own hair and he tugs sharply to offset the pleasure racing through his system. John’s lips release his nipples and John slides down his body pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s skin, lips and teeth exploring his ribs and abdomen. He nips at Sherlock’s hip bone and his tongue traces the crease of Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock thinks he might die. 

But then John’s nose traces the length of Sherlock’s erection and Sherlock whimpers, fairly certain he’s having a heart attack or perhaps a brain aneurysm. He hears John inhale as his nose drifts back down his cock and he realizes John is smelling him. “John,” he manages to choke out, “Oh.”

“You smell fantastic,” John groans, then his mouth is slipping over Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s hips jerk off the bed and into the heat of John’s mouth. John groans around his mouthful and the vibrations race through Sherlock’s cock and up his spine. 

He pulls off, “You taste even better than you smell,” he groans as he sets back in to Sherlock’s cock. His tongue teases over Sherlock’s slit and Sherlock thinks he blacks out for a moment at how unbelievably good that feels. He teases him like that and Sherlock feels precome seep from the tip of his cock. 

John moans as he licks over the fluid, lapping it up like it’s cream. “So good,” he moans around Sherlock’s cock.

His back arches against his will as he presses closer to John’s mouth.

His tongue sets to work, flicking against the head and the underside of his shaft as his hand closes around the base. His other hand slides under Sherlock’s hip and grasps his buttocks, kneading and massaging, and Sherlock wails. 

“John,” he begs desperately, “I can’t-” he gasps as John sucks hard. “I’m going to-” he whimpers again as John does something particularly fantastic with his tongue. “I-” is all he manages to get out as he desperately tugs at John’s hair to get him to lift his head.

John fights against his grip and hollows his cheeks, sucking hard as Sherlock’s orgasm washes through him. John swallows him down as Sherlock wails and all but screams above him. John groans around him, licking and sucking as Sherlock goes soft in his mouth. 

The world is swathed in cotton; Sherlock can’t hear anything or see anything, everything is pleasure and heat and  _ relief. _

When he comes back to himself he hears a soft grunt and the sound of flesh moving over flesh. He opens his eyes to see John’s moved back to the top of the bed and his fist is flying over his cock. “Stop,” Sherlock gasps. 

John groans but does. Sherlock moves down John’s body until he’s eye level with John’s arousal. And Sherlock had always known John had a big cock, but looking at him now he realizes his estimates had been far too conservative. John is  _ huge. _

“Are you just going to stare at it, or?” John asks and Sherlock hears the hint of self-consciousness in his voice. 

Before he can think better of it Sherlock says, “I want it.”

“Sorry?”

“Inside of me,” Sherlock clarifies, wondering if it’s the orgasm or the alcohol that has made him this ridiculously forward. “Please John,” he looks up to see John’s eyes burning through him. “I need you inside of me.”

John groans. “Roll over,” he instructs. “Where’s your lube?”

Sherlock reaches into his bedside drawer and digs around for the lube he uses when he occasionally decides to wank. He throws it at John and plants himself on his hands and knees. 

John nips at Sherlock’s buttock and then he’s licking a stripe between Sherlock’s buttocks over his hole. 

Sherlock all but topples over and a low groan escapes his throat.

“You like that?” John murmurs, his voice is low and seductive and Sherlock realizes, not for the first time, that he is completely gone on him.

“Yes,” he whimpers.

John’s hands clasp his buttocks and spread him wide so his clever tongue, always so expressive when they’re talking, is expressive in an entirely new way. 

It sets arousal simmering low in Sherlock’s belly and he feels dizzy with it. He spreads his legs and John groans against his hole and Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything like that. “John!”

John pulls back minutely, thumbs rubbing between his buttocks and brushing over Sherlock’s hole. “You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen.”

Sherlock’s cock twitches at that, and somehow that doesn’t escape John’s notice. 

“Do you like that?” John murmurs and one of his hands leaves its position on Sherlock’s arse. Before Sherlock can deduce what that hand is doing, John speaks again. “Do you like it when I call you beautiful?”

Sherlock drops his forehead onto his forearms as a jolt of arousal races through him. 

“Yes?” John murmurs, but fortunately it doesn’t seem like he’s really looking for a response. “You are the most stunningly beautiful creature I have ever seen, Sherlock. The most exquisitely lovely person I have ever known.” 

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes uselessly against the sheets as he searches for words.

John’s hand returns to his arse then, his fingers slick with lube as he presses one thick digit against Sherlock’s hole. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, “Please, John.”

“I’ve got you,” John soothes, pressing his finger inside of Sherlock as he leans forward to mouth along Sherlock’s shoulders, covering his spine with kisses.

Sherlock reaches down and strokes himself, trying to counteract the aching arousal in his veins.

“Yes,” John groans. “Oh, Sherlock, that’s gorgeous.” 

Sherlock whimpers, his half-hard cock twitching in his grip.

“That’s it, darling,” John murmurs, changing the speed of his finger thrusting in Sherlock’s hole to match Sherlock’s grip on his cock. “That’s it. Touch yourself. Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” Sherlock moans. 

“You’re so lovely,” John tells him, his mouth slicks across Sherlock’s shoulders again before his torso covers Sherlock’s back and his lips are on Sherlock’s neck instead. 

John’s tongue does something spectacular to Sherlock’s ear as his middle finger presses against Sherlock’s hole and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt anything that feels this much like flying. His mouth opens and a sound somewhere between a moan and a wail is torn from his throat. 

“The noises you make,” John groans as his fingers scissor and tease Sherlock’s rim. “I could listen to you all day.”

Sherlock whines as John’s fingers skirt around the edge of his prostate. When John finally brushes his fingers lightly over that sensitive bundle of nerves, Sherlock’s entire body jerks, “Yes!” he cries out. “Fuck, John, touch me there.”

“Right here?” John teases, his fingers trailing feather-light over Sherlock’s prostate. 

Sherlock nods, unable to conjure any words.

John teases his prostate for long moments, bringing Sherlock’s cock to full hardness in his fist. He scissors his fingers inside of Sherlock, spreading him wider and Sherlock shudders.

“Listen to you,” John groans, his mouth moving wetly against Sherlock’s spine. “The noises you make, sweetheart, fucking gorgeous.”

Sherlock can’t help the involuntary whimper at the pet name. He wants to open his mouth and beg John to always call him sweetheart but he can’t manage it.

John pulls his fingers out and Sherlock gasps, “No,” he whimpers, “Don’t stop, John.”

“I’m not,” John groans and Sherlock feels him pressing his slick fingers against his entrance once more. “Just getting you nice and stretched for me.”

As he breaches him with three fingers, John presses his thick cock against the crease between Sherlock’s arse and thigh. 

“Yes!” Sherlock cries, pressing back to grind against John’s erection, so very near to where he is desperate to have it, and unintentionally taking John’s fingers in deeper. He moans, a long, broken sound that makes John groan a suck at his neck.

John curls his fingers and rubs the three of them around in smooth circles over Sherlock’s prostate. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs. “You like that, baby?”

“Yes.” Sherlock begs. He lets go of his cock and braces his elbow against the mattress under him; he can’t keep touching himself or he’ll come.

“Yeah?” John murmurs, spreading his fingers inside of him. The burn feels exquisite and Sherlock nods. 

“Yes,” he says again.

“Look at you,” John purrs as his hand, not busy spreading Sherlock’s hole wider than it’s ever been, slips down to fondle his erection. “Hard for me already. So good for me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaks, he wants to be good for John. So, so good.

John cups his hand over the head of Sherlock’s cock and lets Sherlock press into his palm. 

“John,” Sherlock manages, his voice slurred and broken. “Inside, please.” He moans as John twists his fingers around his rim. “I need you.”

“Not yet,” John soothes, his fingers pulling out again. “You’re not stretched enough yet. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock groans as John’s pinky presses inside with his other fingers, he feels impossibly open and garbled words slip past his lips.

“Yeah,” John groans as Sherlock rocks his arse back on John’s hand, pressing his fingers deeper inside of himself. “Oh, yeah. Fuck Sherlock, that’s gorgeous.” 

Sherlock moans, the feelings John produces inside of his body urge him higher and higher. John spreads his fingers and twists around his rim and Sherlock thinks he could come. 

“Alright,” John moans, “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he gasps as he pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s arse. “I can’t wait anymore. Please, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock wails. “Anything, John. Please. Put your cock in me.” When John’s fingers are fully removed, Sherlock can still feel his hole gaping, muscles clenching and unclenching as they desperately search for John.

John groans and grasps Sherlock’s hip with his right hand as he lines himself up with Sherlock’s hole with his left. John rubs the head of his cock over Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock thinks he might spontaneously combust. 

“Please,” he cries, “John,  _ please.”  _ He wants to reach back and spread his buttocks wide to expose himself and encourage John to take him.

“Shh,” the other man soothes, “I’ve got you, darling.” Then he’s pressing forward.

The pressure is unbelievable and for a moment, Sherlock’s rational mind thinks there’s no way John’s enormous cock is going to fit inside of his tiny hole.

“It’s alright,” John soothes him, pressing kisses to the knobs of Sherlock’s spine. “Relax for me,” he breathes, his right-hand strokes down Sherlock’s side soothing him. “You can do it, beautiful.” John kisses the knob at the base of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock shudders. “That’s it,” John murmurs, and his hips are slowly pressing forward again so his cock is nudging at Sherlock’s entrance. 

Sherlock sucks in a shuddering breath and something gives way as the head of John’s cock slips past his rim.

“That’s it,” John groans, he keeps himself still, stroking his hands along both of Sherlock’s sides. “That’s it, beautiful, take it.” John and Sherlock groan in tandem as Sherlock’s muscles clench and unclench involuntarily around his cock. “That’s it’s sweetheart, take me.”

Sherlock cries out as his hole quivers, drawing John in deeper. 

“Beautiful,” John moans as he leans back and Sherlock can practically feel the heat of his gaze boring into the place where they are connected. John’s left-hand leaves its place on his hip and a moment later a shaky finger is tracing around Sherlock’s stretched pucker.

Sherlock moans and a string of precome drips from the tip of his cock. 

“Look at you,” John growls, “stretched so wide around my cock, fuck that’s beautiful.”

Sherlock can only whimper, his back arching as John draws slowly out and rocks back in the few inches. 

If Sherlock’s calculations are correct, John can’t be pushing in more than a quarter of his cock and he wants it all. Desperately. “Please, more,” he begs.

“Yeah?” John asks breathlessly. 

“Yes,” Sherlock affirms, “Please, John.” 

“You’re a fucking marvel, you are,” John groans as he presses in further, stretching Sherlock even wider. The ache and the burn feel spectacular and Sherlock wants nothing more than to feel this way for the rest of his life. 

“Alright?” John pants, keeping his hips admirably still as Sherlock adjusts. 

“Yes! Keep going,” Sherlock begs. “I need to feel you. All of you,” he moans, “Every glorious inch, John please.”

John’s forehead presses against Sherlock’s spine and Sherlock can feel him taking slow, deep breaths and exhaling as he tries to control himself. Then he’s grasping Sherlock’s hips and pressing forward again.

Sherlock lets out a high, breathy sound halfway between a moan and a whimper and reaches his left hand up to grasp the headboard. 

“Still alright?” John asks, and Sherlock thinks his cock feels like it buried so deeply inside of him that if he touched his belly he’d be able to feel John’s cock.

“Yes,” he moans. “I want the rest.”

“Fuck,” John grunts, his breath humid against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “Are you sure? You’re so fucking tight, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock begs. 

“You’ve got to be a wet dream,” John grunts as he presses forward slowly. 

Something happens as the last few inches of John’s cock slide in and fill him to the brim. Sherlock’s mind shorts out and he transcends to a place in his head that he’s never achieved outside of the influence of certain drugs. It’s like he can feel every individual molecule within his body and each one of those molecules feels entirely weightless and full of light and energy. He feels swept up and held together, somewhere above this mortal plane. It’s glorious. 

“Sherlock,” John pants, out.

“Mmm?” 

“I asked if you were alright,” John says, concern clear in his voice.

That simply won’t do. “I’m transcendent, John,” he sighs out, 

“So...” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs, “Please fuck me.”

John groans and licks a trail up Sherlock’s spine. It makes Sherlock feel like his spine is unzipping itself and he thinks that’s alright, because maybe that means it’s opening to let John meld inside of him. Maybe they can stay like this forever.

“You feel exquisite,” John groans as his hips slowly start to move, his cock sliding out, then back in. 

Sherlock moans, it’s all he can manage in reply as John’s cock trails teasingly over his prostate. 

After a few minutes of John carefully thrusting in and out, reangling his hips, and sucking bruises all across Sherlock’s shoulders, he finds a position that makes Sherlock’s toes curls and his cock jump. “There,” he gasps. “Fuck, right there.”

He feels John grin against his spine and he starts to move a bit more quickly, his hips circling slightly as he presses in and out. 

Sherlock’s fingers clench harder against the headboard and his toes curl so hard he thinks they might cramp at any moment but he can’t care because it feels So.  _ Good _ .  He realizes that there is an inhuman, half wailing-half screaming sound coming from his mouth but can’t be arsed to care about that either.

“Yes,” John pants, and his hips snap against Sherlock’s arse. “Fuck, yes.” His hips kick up another notch and Sherlock feels his body being shoved forward and he braces his other hand against the headboard, which is now hammering against the wall.

“John,” he begs.

“Are you almost there?” John manages through a gasp. 

“Yes.”

“Me too,” John groans as he bends back over Sherlock’s back to suck at the tender skin between where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. “Can you come for me beautiful?”

“Say my name,” Sherlock blurts, without really understanding why. 

“Sherlock,” John moans and it is the most delightful thing Sherlock has ever heard. His thighs quiver. “Come for me, Sherlock,” John says, his voice low and desperate. “My gorgeous, brilliant Sherlock.” 

Sherlock screams John’s name as his balls draw up tight and he ejaculates so hard it almost hurts.

“Oh,” John groans, his hips jerking in and out of Sherlock’s hole, “Yes. Yes! Fuck!” 

Sherlock feels John’s hips slam into him once more before he stills and spills himself deep inside of Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock’s cock twitches as he feels John rock in and out of his hole a few more times, drawing out his pleasure. 

They collapse in a heap on the bed and Sherlock can’t even find it in himself to be bothered that he is lying on a wet spot. The weight of John on his back is somehow at once grounding and freeing. Sherlock doesn’t want him to ever leave.

John's lips move lazily over Sherlock’s shoulder, trailing sloppy approximations of kisses into his skin. “You’re brilliant,” John groans, sounding even drunker than he had at the bar. “You are the most fantastic, outstanding, sexy...” he trails off and doesn’t finish his sentence, but that’s alright.

Sherlock turns his head slightly, reaching back to clasp John’s hip. Words are still elusive. 

They lie there a while longer, sweat cooling on their skin, and eventually John’s softening cock slips from Sherlock’s hole. They both wince at that, then John is sitting up and Sherlock groans, immediately missing the warm weight of the other man against him.

“Hush,” John soothes, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s side, “Just want to look at you, make sure you’re alright.”

John’s fingers carefully spread Sherlock’s buttocks and Sherlock squirms; it feels strangely like pleasure and embarrassment all at once. 

The doctor carefully trails his fingers over Sherlock’s hole, “Looks like you’re alright,” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to the dimple right above Sherlock’s arse. “You’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow, though.”

Sherlock rolls over onto his back and looks up at John, the look of open adoration on John’s face takes his breath away. He's never dared to let himself imagine what it might feel like to have that look directed at him.

“You feel alright?” John asks, oblivious to the way Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his chest. 

He nods.

“Good.” John leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock’s chastely. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the loo and Sherlock tries to store away every single piece of this night inside of his mind palace, knowing he'll need to expand John's wing, add on a few more rooms at the very least. 

John’s back a moment later with a wet flannel. He carefully cleans Sherlock’s cock before cleaning between his legs, then over his hole. “You look beautiful,” John murmurs as he leans in and kisses Sherlock again.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s neck and holds him close for a long moment. John drops the flannel on the floor and climbs in bed, his lips still glued to Sherlock’s. 

They lay together, lips brushing over each other’s for long moments until John falls asleep with his nose tucked against Sherlock’s neck. It only takes a moment for Sherlock to follow him over the edge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is another flashback to John, but then we'll see what happens in the morning. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're jumping back 2.5 months for this chapter. Sorry to leave you on the edge of your seats wondering what will happen in the morning- I hope to get the next chapter up tomorrow (knocking on wood!). Enjoy!

_ John  _

**_Two and a Half Months Ago_ **

“Bloody hell, John. What kind of trauma have you inflicted on your body this week?” Henry asks as he works at a knot in John’s lower back in a way that has John biting his lip to avoid making an embarrassing sort of noise.

“No trauma,” John manages before Henry’s elbow presses against the spot and steals his breath away.

“Deep breath in and then exhale,” Henry instructs, chiding gently in that familiar way of his, “Tensing up will only make it worse.”

John tries to do as he was asked, he really does, but holding his breath and tensing makes the pain more bearable and breathing makes it harder.

“Tough week?” Henry asks as something releases in John’s back, he exhales in relief.

“Oh, just the usual.”

“My wife loves your blog,” he comments, as he works his way up John’s spine. 

"Oh, yeah? Cheers," John says.

“I should tell her that based on your tension there’s going to be a great blog post coming up,” he teases.

“The case was dull,” John replies through a groan 'Dull, dull, dull!' Sherlock echoes in his mind. “It looked promising but it was only a three. Then Rosie had the flu and was miserable all week, absolutely inconsolable. And Sherlock had a massive sulk about the case and the class of criminals in London these days.”

He laughs sympathetically, “I’ve got a two-year-old at home, the strops he throws,” he lets out a low whistle. “I can’t imagine having two of them.”

“Oh, I’ll take Rosie’s strops over Sherlock’s any day of the week. At least Rosie doesn’t know how to- ow, fuck-” he interrupts himself when Henry digs into another a bad spot, “shoot a gun, unlike Sherlock.”

Henry chuckles at that and then they're quiet for a few minutes, the silence is only punctuated by John’s huffs and grunts as the knots are worked out of his back. After several moments of silence when Henry has switched to soothing out the soreness and tension with broad strokes of his palms, he says, “So it’s none of my business, but are you and Sherlock...” he trails off and John wishes he didn’t know what he was asking.

He sighs, wondering if he is truly so obvious to everyone? “Not exactly,” he says. “But sort of?” 

The other man says nothing as he continues to rub John’s back.

"It’s complicated,” he finally confesses. “It’s not what you’d imagine a relationship being,” he says, even though he doesn’t know why he's saying any of this, probably the endorphins from the pain. “But we live together, we do pretty much everything together, he’s as much of a parent to Rosie as I am, I’m pretty sure. He just, doesn’t feel things like that. I don’t think?” he paused. “Or I didn’t use to think he did.”

“Better you than me, mate,” Henry replies. “I never could quite get the hang of dating blokes. Not from lack of trying, mind you, just because men are so much more closed off, so much harder to read. I thank God every day for the simplicity of my wife, even when she’s driving me round the twist with her emotions.”

John laughs, “I didn’t do so well with my wife, either,” he confesses like a joke, even though it's not really a joke. 

“Must be you, then,” Henry teases.

But there was some truth in his words, a truth that Sherlock and Mary both had tried to tell him and a truth he still feels bitter about. “Must be,” he replies, keeping his tone light even as his heart clenches in his chest.

“You’ll figure it out,” the other man says confidently. 

“I hope you’re right.”

\--------------------------

“Why did you send me to get a massage?”

Helen looks over the top of her glasses at him, undoubtedly surprised at the direction change in their conversation. “Did it help?” she asks.

“Well I’ve got a standing appointment every Thursday with a bloke named Henry, so I supposed it did,” he tells her. Although after leaving the last time, he’d been haunted by their conversation, he does not tell her this.

“You’re experiencing touch deprivation.” 

“Pardon?”

She sets down her pen, “You’re touch starved, John. It’s that feeling you get under your skin, the irritability.”

“That’s not a real thing,” he scoffs at her. “I’m a doctor, too, remember? With a real medical degree and an MD attached to the end of my name and everything.”

“I assure you that it is a real thing,” she replies. “If it weren’t, would it have helped you to go have a massage?”

“But I touch people all of the time," he protests, "I have an eighteen-month-old, I’m a doctor.” 

“Yes, but in those instances you are touching people not the other way around.” She shifts slightly in her chair, “It’s incredibly common here, John, British people have a certain aversion to showing affection to people.”

“What’s it got to do with my parents?”

“Who said it had something to do with your parents?”

“It’s an inference,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “You asked me to describe my parents and then told me to go get a massage.”

“Touch deprivation has, in some cases, been loosely linked to childhood trauma.”

“I’m not traumatized by my childhood,” John replies tersely. “You don’t know a thing about my childhood.”

“Yes and isn’t that telling?” 

John swallows, his fist clenches and unclenches at his side. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn't want to talk about his mum and his father.

“I’m not trying to antagonize you, John,” she says softly. “And I’m not trying to force you to talk about something you’re not ready to talk about. You wanted to know what it had to do with your parents, I just wanted to answer your question.”

John's silent for a moment. “So, what? My parents didn’t hug me enough as a child and I’m just completely fucked for the rest of my life?”

“Touch deprivation can happen to anyone, regardless of their childhood, and it’s easily treatable as you’ve seen from your massage appointments. Childhood trauma, on the other hand,” she shrugs, “Much more difficult. Much more complex.”

“It’s why it’s always my fault, isn’t it?”

“What’s always your fault?” she asks, brow furrowed.

“Why I always pick people who are dangerous and bound to hurt me,” John replies. 

“Could you say more about that?”

“When I learned that Mary was an assassin, Sherlock told me that the reason she was that way was because I chose her. Essentially, I am incapable of falling in love with anyone who isn’t at least a little dangerous, who isn't going to hurt me.”

“Is that true? Or is it just the way you feel?”

“It’s true,” John said. “Mary, Sherlock, James-” he starts.

“Yes, but did they hurt you because they wanted to hurt you or because it was your expectation that they would want to hurt you?”

“What?” John asked. “You’re not making any sense.”

“In their actions, was their motivation to hurt you?”

“What do you mean?”

"Let's start with James, probably the least amount of hurt there," John sort of felt like he should resent that implication but couldn't bring himself to before she continues, "What did James do that hurt you the most?"

"He shut me out after he was invalided home. Me, of all people," John says incredulously. "I'd be wounded in action and sent home, too. I'd watched men die because I wasn't fast enough to save them, too. I got a medal and it felt like a betrayal of all of the men I had not saved. If anyone could understand what he was going through, it was me."

She nods, "What do you think his motivation was?"

"I don't know," John replies, shaking his head. "I think it's just hard when you come back to believe that people could still love you, to imagine that when they look at you that they don't see the monster that you see when you look into a mirror."

"So would you say that it was his intention to hurt you?"

"No," John replies, "No, of course not."

“What did Sherlock do that hurt you the most?”

“He jumped off a roof and pretended to be dead for two years, leaving me to mourn and grieve his death,” John replies. "Then when he came back, it was like he thought it was some big, stupid joke."

“What was his motivation? Why did he jump?”

“To save my life,” he says without hesitation. “And Lestrade’s and Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“Right. Was he trying to hurt you?”

“He did hurt me,” he replies, seeing where this is going.

“I don't deny that, but you just told me what his motivation was for jumping off a roof in front of you. Do you think that hurting you was his goal?” 

“No,” John concedes.

“And Mary,” she says. “What did she do to hurt you?”

“She lied to me. She lied about literally everything. She put me in danger, put our baby in danger, put Sherlock in danger.”

“What was her motivation? Why do you think she lied to you?”

He shrugs, “She wanted a fresh start, she thought that I could never love her if I knew the truth.”

“Right,” she says again. “Was she trying to hurt you?”

“No,” he says, “But it doesn’t change the fact that she did.”

“You’re right,” she replies evenly, nodding encouragingly at him, “You are entitled to feel what you feel, you are entitled to process those feelings. You’re allowed to be angry with them and to feel hurt by their actions, I’m not trying to diminish that and it’s important to communicate with people about how they’ve hurt you. But I am asking that you look at their actions objectively because I think it will help.”

“I don’t understand,” John replies. “So what? I’m just supposed to let it go?”

“No,” she says patiently, “You said that you ‘always pick people who are bound to hurt you.’ and I would contend that that mentality is a result of your childhood trauma. That feeling is a result of the people who were supposed to care for you hurting you. It’s what they taught you; even if it wasn’t explicitly stated, you learned that to be loved is to be hurt. Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who believes that real love is a disadvantage.”

John is silent, he doesn’t know what to say to that. What can he possibly say to something like that? Something that feels like a ton of bricks being dropped on his head.

“I’m just asking you to consider the possibility that someone who loves you might not want you to be hurt. I asking you to consider the possibility that _maybe_ the opposite is true.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, 
> 
> Thank you for all of the kind comments on this work! I'm glad you're enjoying my silliness. 
> 
> Here's the next chapter. :)

_ Sherlock _

**_Present_ **

When Sherlock wakes up in the morning there is an instant of bliss. One shining moment when he feels so happy that he thinks he might combust. 

But that’s all it is. A moment. Then Sherlock is panicking. 

He detangles himself from John as cautiously as he can; he can’t wake the other man. Not yet. He needs to think. 

He stumbles to the loo, cursing himself as he trips over a pair of trousers on the floor. There’s a dull sort of ache in his arse and thighs and Sherlock’s pretty sure if anyone could see him walking right now, they’d think he had chronic pain. 

Using the toilet is not an entirely pleasant experience and it’s clear that he’d had enough alcohol the night before to make him hungover this morning. He groans to himself as he climbs in the shower. 

This was a nightmare. A complete and total nightmare. 

Well, not totally. 

The sex last night hadn’t been a nightmare. Frankly, it had been nothing short of mind-blowingly fantastic. And somehow that fact makes him feel even more guilty. 

John is going to leave. 

He wouldn’t stay after this. John doesn’t like being a cheater. Look how he’d reacted when he’d cheated on Mary and those were just texts. They’d literally had sex and John was dating someone else. 

John is going to leave and he is going to take Rosie with him. 

Sherlock  _ needs  _ to see her with a fierceness that surprises him because as much as he doesn't want to lose John, he desperately doesn't want to lose Rosie either. He needs to hold her in his arms, take in her scent, kiss the crown of her head. Store every last detail of her away. 

He finishes showering as quickly as he can and takes a moment to collect his clothes strewn about the flat to throw in the hamper and lays John’s clothes over the chair in his room. There’s no sense in leaving them all over the place. 

Then he takes a cab to Molly’s, bouncing his leg and snapping at the cabbie the entire way. He hurries up the walk to the front door and rings the doorbell. When there is no answer after 36 seconds he rings the doorbell again. Then a third time another 22 seconds after that. 

The door is thrown open 18 seconds later as he’s reaching for the button again. 

“Do you have any idea what bloody time it is?” Molly asks between gritted teeth. She looks a fright; her hair is out of place, robe sloppily tied and hanging off her shoulder. 

“Just after half six,” Sherlock replies. 

“She didn’t sleep half the night, you know. And now she has finally been asleep for a stretch of more than two hours and you show up,” she’s fuming but Sherlock can’t care. He needs to see her. 

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience and sorry she didn’t sleep through the night. It must have been the environment,” he muses. She almost always sleeps a solid 6-8 hours, she has since she was seven months old. 

Molly huffs and turns, leaving the door open behind her. He can hear that Rosie’s started to cry again, her voice sounds hoarse and exhausted and his heart clenches painfully in his chest. 

The minute she claps eyes on him she is reaching out and wailing, “LALA!” she cries and he scoops her up. 

“That’s all she’s been saying,” Molly says, rubbing a hand tiredly over her face. “Dada and Lala. All night.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Sherlock says, thinking they ought to have gone and picked up Rosie rather than going to the pub, that would have made everything so much easier for everyone. “Maybe we’ll have to rethink overnights.”

“They just need to happen more often,” Molly replies. 

He presses a kiss into Rosie’s hair, inhaling the scent of her lavender shampoo. He hushes her as he sways from side to side, soothing her cries, “There, there, little one,” he murmurs. “You’re alright, my darling.”

“Lala,” she whimpers against his shoulder.

“Ah,” Molly says behind him, “I see. You’re Lala.”

Sherlock turns to look at her, “Yes.”

“I’ll just get her things packed up. Why don’t you go and make us both a cup of coffee and you can tell me about whatever’s happened.”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“Fine,” Molly says, waving a hand before starting to pack Rosie’s things into her overnight bag, “Make us both a cup of coffee anyway, Caffeine is the only way I’ll make it through my day.”

Sherlock huffs but heads toward the kitchen, balancing Rosie on his hip as he makes two cups of coffee with the Keurig on her counter. He adds sugar to his and cream and sugar to Molly’s then sprinkles in a dash of the cinnamon she has on the counter next to the coffee maker.

After a few minutes, which Sherlock spends with Rosie wrapped tightly in his arms, breathing her in as she babbles at him, Molly comes out to the kitchen and picks up the yellow mug of coffee. “All packed,” she says cheerfully, brushing a kiss over Rosie’s curls. “You might as well let her have breakfast here,” she says. “I picked up some yogurt and peaches from the store for her for breakfast.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment.

“I’m sure John’s still sleeping,” Molly tells him in a moment of clarity. “Whatever it is will have to wait anyway.”

With a sigh, he sets Rosie into the highchair. She is less than impressed and makes it known as she starts to wail and reaches for him immediately.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, bending to press a kiss to her head. “I would never leave you." Although, he is not sure that he can say the same about her (and John) leaving him. Best not to dwell on that now. 

He sits down next to her and Molly hands Sherlock her sippy cup filled with formula before cutting up the peaches into tiny, baby-sized peaches. He gets her bibb onto her with practiced ease. “Did you have fun with Molly?” he asks her, aiming for cheerful and bright like he usually does with her and undoubtedly missing by a mile. 

She babbles away cheerfully at him just the same. Sherlock smiles and nods, adding in the occasional, “Is that right?” and “Goodness, that is quite a story,” to keep her going. 

He sets her sippy cup on her tray and she takes it, bringing it to her own mouth and proceeding to talk while she’s trying to drink, resulting in formula all over her face and hands which she is largely unperturbed by. 

“We did have a good night,” Molly says, setting the bowl of yogurt and peaches in front of Rosie and handing the baby spoon over to Sherlock. 

“Good,” Sherlock says, glancing up and giving her a quick closed-lip smile. “Thank you again for watching her.”

He scoops up a little of the yogurt and peaches and offers it to Rosie. She drops her sippy cup and reaches out with her hand to swipe it off the spoon. 

“No, love,” Sherlock says, drawing the spoon back, “Ahh,” he instructs, tapping her bottom lip with his finger. "Open."

She babbles a bit, but drops her hand and lets Sherlock put the food in her mouth. 

“It was no problem,” Molly says. “Bedtime was the only time that gave us any trouble, you two could leave her here more often, you know.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to impose,” Sherlock says, as he spoons another scoop of yogurt and peaches into Rosie’s waiting mouth.

“It’s no imposition,” Molly says quickly, “it’s nice to have her here.”

He nods, “I’ll let John know, it’s his decision ultimately.”

“Right,” Molly replies, taking a sip of her coffee. “So how was the case? I’m assuming you solved it.”

“Yes, a bit dull honestly but it paid enough to take care of this one’s University expenses, future wedding if she goes in for that sort of thing, and then some,” he says nodding at Rosie.

“Wow,” Molly replies, pulling her long hair back into a ponytail. 

She might have started to say something else, but Sherlock didn’t hear it because he blurted, “John’s seeing someone.”

Molly takes a careful sip of her coffee before she replies, “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Sherlock scoffs, glancing at her. 

She shrugs, “You aren’t always right, especially when it comes to John.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks as he tries to stop Rosie from reaching into the bowl to grab a piece of peach to no avail.

“That you’re both idiots,” she says. 

“Finish your coffee,” he chides, “You’re too grumpy.”

With a chuckle, she takes another sip. “So what happened?”

“Why do you assume something happened?”

“Intuition,” she replies. “And it is too early for your,” she pauses and gestures vaguely at him with her cup, then says, “bologne,” instead of the word she probably wanted to say. “So why don’t you just tell me already.”

He bites his lip, then sets down the spoon, giving it up as a lost cause anyway since Rosie’s decided to try to eat the yogurt and peaches with her hands. “We went out with the yard last night after we’d finished solving the case,” Sherlock begins. “Got a bit drunk, I went out to get a bit of air and by the time I got back into the bar John was doing body shots off Donovan.”

“Gah!” Rosie shouts, shoving a peach and most of her hand into her mouth and pounding her other fist on the tray emphatically at the same time. 

“Precisely, Rosemund, what was daddy thinking?”   


“Oh, I don’t know,” Molly says, “I used to do body shots at Uni, they’re harmless.”

“‘At Uni’ being the operative words in that sentence,” Sherlock remarks dryly. 

She rolls her eyes, “So, from that you think that he’s seeing Sally?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, completely appalled, “Don’t be absurd. John’s not seeing Sally.”

“Right,” Molly says, “My mistake, obviously. Was she the only person he did a body shot off of?”

“No,” Sherlock replies and he can feel his face heating, fire rushing down his neck.

Molly starts to squeal, “Oh my g-” 

“He also did one off of Lestrade,” he hastens to add.

“And you!” 

“Two off of me, technically.”

“You do have the perfect suprasternal notch for it.”

“Seriously, how much did you drink at Uni?”

She rolls her eyes at him again, “Then what happened?”

“John had consumed far more alcohol than is advisable so I suggested we go home.”

“And...” she prompts, watching him as though she was watching a soap opera unfold before her very eyes.

“My life is not a tv drama.”

“No, it’s way better than that,” she agrees with a wink. “Come on, tell me. He kissed you, didn’t he?”

He glances over at Rosie who was contentedly squashing peaches with her fist, yammering away at them. “He did a lot more than kiss me,” he confesses quickly, “Most of which would be entirely inappropriate to disclose.”

“That’s so exciting!” she shrieks. “Was it amazing? I bet it was amazing.”

“Why are you suddenly so invested in my relationship with John? Shouldn’t you be jealous, or something?”

She laughs, “Please. I would have been a complete idiot to ever believe that you’d fancy me after the speech you gave at John’s wedding. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt at the time, but I’m not an idiot.”

“No you are not,” he replies sincerely. 

Molly gives him a soft smile, “So spill. Was it amazing or what?”

“Yeah,” he says with a small smile, “It was amazing. Better than amazing. He’s transcendent; I never imagined anything could feel like that.”

“So, you slept together,” she says, glancing at Rosie even though words don’t really matter at this point. “And he what? Left or something?”

“No, he’s probably still in my bed.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“I told you,” he says in exasperation, “He’s seeing someone and John hates being a cheater.”

“Yeah, but if John were seeing someone, do you really think he would have slept with you?”

“He was very drunk.”

“Are you sure?”

"I watched him consume most of the alcohol, and if you recall I have very precise calculations fo-"

"No, I mean are you sure he's dating someone else?" Molly interrupts impatiently.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “He told me his name is Henry.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head at him and reaching over to take the mostly empty bowl from Rosie’s hand before she throws it on the ground. “No way. If John was going to date a man, it wouldn’t be some random bloke named Henry, it would be you.”

“That was what I always hoped, too,” Sherlock agrees helplessly. 

“You should talk to him.” 

“I don’t wa-” he pauses as his phone starts to ring. With a wince, he pulls it out of his pocket and looks down.  _ John. _ “It’s John,” he says, looking up to Molly.

“Answer it,” she tells him, as she moves to the sink to wet a flannel to wash Rosie’s hands. 

“Hello?” he says.

“Hey,” John’s voice replies, it sounds soft and a little sleepy, he doesn’t seem angry. “You weren’t here when I woke up.”

He glances up to see that Molly is watching him and can obviously hear what John is saying. “I went to pick up Rosie.”

There’s a brief pause, “It’s seven in the morning.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

“Poor Molly,” he says.

“Yes, quite,” he manages. “We were just feeding Rosie breakfast,” he says, casting around for something to say.

“Oh, you and Molly were?” he asks and his tone sounds different, something tight and displeased that hadn’t been before.

“I insisted,” Molly says quietly, pointing to the phone with her finger.

“Molly insisted,” Sherlock repeats, even though he’s not entirely sure why that should make a difference. “She already had all of the things for Rosie’s breakfast.”

“Ah,” John replies, the tension’s drained out of his voice once more. “Well, that makes sense I suppose.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, looking helplessly at Molly.

“Well,” John starts, then stops again, “Are you coming home soon, then?”

He looks up at Molly who nods her head. “Yes,” he says again. “Umm, I’ve just got to help get Rosie cleaned up and grab her things, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Great!” John says, with too much enthusiasm, “Errm. That’s good, I mean,” he stammers, “I’ll, umm, see you soon, then.”

“Right, see you soon,” Sherlock repeats. 

“Okay,” John says. 

They both are silent for a long moment before Sherlock realizes how ridiculous this is. “Right,” he says. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Yes,” John replies. “Right.”

“Good bye, then.”

“Bye.”

Molly claps her hands at him, “This is perfect. Whoever this Henry guy is, I’m sure it can’t be serious.”

He groans and drops his head forward onto the table making Rosie burst into peals of giggles. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Just go talk to him!” she says in exasperation. She nudges his shoulder to get him to sit up. “Here, take this beautiful baby back home and then have an  _ actual conversation _ with the man you’re hopelessly in love with.”

“I resent that remark,” he replies. “And if you think it’s hopeless, you shouldn’t be sending me off to confess my love to him.”

“It’s an expression,” she says as she picks up Rosie’s overnight bag and hands it to him. “Bye bye, sweet girl. Auntie Molly will see you soon, yes?” she says, pressing a kiss to Rosie’s forehead. 

Rosie waves a chunky fist at her and babbles something inarticulate. 

“Yes,” Molly affirms, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says softly.

“You’re welcome,” she replies with a grin. “Good luck.”

“You’re the worst,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out the door. “Why would you wish me luck if you think this isn’t hopeless.”

“Because, knowing you two, you’ll find a way to mess everything up regardless.”

He turns and glares at her, “I rescind my thank you.”

She winks at him, “Call me and tell me how things go.”

He shakes his head and walks out toward the main road, searching for a cab.

A cab, it turns out, is not easy to find in Molly’s stupid residential neighborhood at this time of day. He ends up calling Mycroft because he is absolutely not walking back to Baker Street with a baby and he’s not taking her on the bus or the tube. 

The only consolation is that it’s early and it makes Mycroft irritable when he calls at this hour of the morning.

When they finally get home, he has to steel himself before climbing the stairs. His heart is racing and if it weren’t for Rosie tugging at his collar and saying, “Dada, dada!” while pointing up the stairs, he might never have managed to unstick his feet from the floor. 

He climbs the stairs with dread mounting higher in his chest every step of the way. It feels almost like he can’t breathe as he pushes the door open into the living room and steps inside.

“Hey,” John calls from the kitchen. “Finally.” He still doesn't sound mad and something tentatively unfurls in his chest.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says as he drops Rosie’s bag and takes off his coat. “We couldn’t find a taxi in Molly’s neighborhood at this hour.”

John came out to meet them, reaching out to unhook Rosie from the baby Bjorn strapped to Sherlock’s chest. “Hello, love,” he coos as Rosie reaches out and grabs his nose, babbling happy ‘dadadadadadada’. “Yes, I missed you, too, my darling,” he says as he kisses her forehead, “Were you good for Molly?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies absently. “Molly says we should leave her more often, she had a hard time sleeping last night, apparently.”

Rosie has snuggled into John’s neck, tiredly rubbing her face against his skin. “Yeah, she still seems tired.” 

Sherlock nods, “An extra nap today, perhaps.”

“Yes,” John affirms. “Sorry, it’s Thursday,” he says then. “I’d hoped to have a little time to chat, but it’s already 8:20 and I’ve got to get to the clinic.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, “Of course,” he reaches out and gently takes Rosie for John, settling her against his collarbone. 

There is a moment of awkward silence where they just stare at one another.

“I should go,” John says finally, moving toward his coat hanging next to Sherlock’s.

“Yes.”

“Listen, Sherlock,” John says haltingly and Sherlock’s heart races with a spike of adrenaline. “About last night-”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurts quickly.

“Err,” John says, “You’re sorry?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, “I didn’t-” he starts. “I wasn’t-” he shakes his head, “I never meant to do something that could upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” John says, gently, reaching out to rest his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’re not?” 

“No,” John replies with a small smile. He glances down at his watch. “Bollocks, I’ve really got to go. Let’s talk about it later, alright?” 

“Sure.” 

“Okay,” John says with a nod. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Rosie’s head and Sherlock can smell his aftershave, it’s intoxicating. “I’ll see you two later, you be good for Sherlock, hmm?” 

With that he’s out the door and Sherlock’s stomach is still in knots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talking is coming in the next chapter, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay everyone. I live in the neighborhood in Minneapolis where George Floyd was murdered and it has been quite a week here. My heart aches for George Floyd, his family, and all those who live under the weight of injustice and oppression. 
> 
> I struggled to find the motivation to edit and post the last chapter with all that is going on. But this is one small way I can spread light and love, so here we are. <3

**John**

**_Present_ **

John spends the entire day feeling like he is walking on air, which is impressive given the  _ massive  _ hangover he has from the night before. But honestly, John feels like he could be hit by a bus and it would not have changed the fact that he feels like he must be the luckiest man in the entire world. 

He cannot believe that he had gotten to hold Sherlock Holmes in his arms, that he had gotten to kiss him, to touch him, to make love to him. It had been everything he’d ever imagined it would be and then some. His whole body aches in that delicious, just-had-outstanding-sex, way. Every time John moves there is a part of him that aches or twinges and he is reminded of the night before.

John can only hope that Sherlock feels the same way. He can only hope that last night was the start of the next chapter of their lives and relationship. He is ridiculously, deliriously in love with Sherlock Holmes and he is absolutely high on hope and endorphins. 

Nothing can take away his joy. 

Not the four patients who empty the contents of their stomachs on him, not the man who sneezes directly in his face, not the three rectal exams he has on his roster. Not even the grumpy secretary who refuses to acknowledge John’s existence. 

No, he floats through his workday with a joy that he has never possessed in his life. Because he is in love.

It doesn’t matter when he leaves the clinic and it is downpouring. It doesn’t matter that he has to walk thirteen blocks in the pouring rain to catch a cab to get his massage. And it doesn’t matter to him that he is five minutes late to his appointment. 

Henry’s in the waiting room scrolling through his phone and drinking some water when John arrives. 

“Sorry I’m late,” John says, shaking a little excess water out of his hair. “A cab was a little hard to come by today.”

“You look like a drowned rat,” Henry replies with a grin. “At least being out of your clothes will give them a chance to dry. Maybe they’ll be mostly dry by the end of your massage so you can go out and get them soaked again.”

John laughs, “Piss off,” he says.

“This way, you’re in room four today.”

He follows Henry down the hall and Henry lets him go in and get undressed. He does his best to hang his clothes over the chair so they’ll dry a little before climbing onto the cot. 

After a few minutes, Henry comes in and dims the lights, “You seem to be in a fine mood today, especially given the weather.”

“I am in a great mood,” John replies, sighing as Henry’s hands start to work their magic on his neck. 

“Any particular reason?” he asks with a fake sense of casualness. 

“Well, a gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Ooh,” he says and John can hear the grin in his voice. “But you are not a gentleman, so come on. You don’t have to tell me the dirty details, unless you want to,” he adds salaciously, “But just tell me that it was Sherlock.”

John smiles, he can’t help it, “Yeah, of course it was Sherlock.”

“Bloody finally!” Henry enthuses. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” John replies with a chuckle and then a groan as Henry digs into a knot near his spine. 

They’re quiet for a few minutes save John’s occasional grunts and harsh exhales as Henry uses his elbow to work at knots in muscles that have been sore all day from the way John used them last night. 

“Did you participate in the Olympics or something?” the other man huffs at John as he presses into a stubborn knot.

“No,” John manages, but only just.

“Breathe,” he instructs.

“Was just rather vigorous, is all.”

“I do not find that surprising in the least,” he replies with a chuckle. “Sherlock Holmes is quite fit.”

“He is,” John affirms. “As is the man you’re currently pulverizing.”

“Too much?” he asks quickly.

“Nope, it’s good.”

“Well, I’m not allowed to think about my clients being fit or not, am I?”

He chuckles out a breathless laugh, “Good save.”

Henry laughs in return and they go back to the comfortable silence as he works out all of the knots and tension from John’s back. 

He closes his eyes and basks in the possibilities that could be opening up for him when he returns home. 

Eventually, when Henry’s gone to gently soothing his muscles in his neck and back, he asked, “So you two are official now?”

John gives a half shrug and winces as Henry takes that opportunity to rub out a stubborn knot in his shoulder. “I mean, we haven’t really talked it through yet, but yeah, I think so.”

“What do you mean you haven’t talked it through yet?”

“Well, we fell asleep,” John replies. “Then he had already gone to pick up Rosie by the time I woke up and by the time he got back I had to go to work.”

“What?”

“It’s fine,” John says, “We’ll talk when I get home.”

“Why are you even here?” Henry asks. “Not that I don’t look forward to your weekly sessions, but if I were you, I would be home.”

John is silent for a minute, “You’re right,” he replies. “You’re totally right. I'm an idiot. What am I doing?”

Henry laughs, “You should go.”

“Yeah,” John says, sitting up. 

He climbs off the cot and tugs on his slacks as Henry leaves the room, “I’ll grab you a water bottle.”

John throws on his shirt and jacket and he rushes out of the room, grabbing the water bottle and thanking Henry on his way. He has somewhere he needs to be and things he needs to say.

\-------------------------

**Sherlock**

_**Present** _

Sherlock is not, by nature, a patient person. He has many fine qualities (many not so fine qualities, too, but he’s trying to focus on the positives) but patience has never been, and will probably never be, his strong suit. 

Which is precisely why John leaving this morning with the words, “Let’s talk about it later, alright?” is driving Sherlock absolutely barmy. 

He spends the entire day struggling not to think about John and the conversation they will have later. He tries not to wonder if John will go and see Henry today. He tries to focus on anything and everything else. He even starts a new experiment.

When John returns at 4:46 (indicating he’s been to see Henry but for less time than usual), soaking wet, he tries not to think about their talk later. He tries to focus on dinner, on Rosie, then back on his experiment. He starts back in on the cow liver he’d been studying while Rosie napped as John takes her up to bed. 

When he comes back down, John pops into the kitchen and stands next to Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock tries not to vomit from all of the nervous energy bouncing around in his body. 

“Hey,” John says. 

And Sherlock abhors that word. What a stupid word. Whoever invented the word ‘hey’ ought to be hung and quartered. Sherlock doesn’t look up, he gives him a tilt of the head.

“Are you busy?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock lies because he can’t do this yet, he’s not ready to hear John say that they will only ever be friends, he’s not ready to hear John call last night a mistake.

“Oh,” John says, slightly crestfallen. “Right, well, I’m still frozen from the rain. I’m just going to take a quick shower to warm up. Maybe we can talk after?” He rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder on his way past and Sherlock’s entire body aches for him. He is in so much trouble.

He tries very hard to focus on his experiment but his mind continually wanders to John and to Rosie and their lives together. He blinks hard against tears and goes back to work. It’s probably been fifteen minutes of forced concentration when he realizes they are out of lactic acid and wonders if John has tucked it away somewhere out of Rosie's reach. 

With an irritated huff, he stands up and stomps to the bathroom where he knows that John is shaving because he is a creature of habit and he’s just gotten out of the shower. He throws the door open saying, “John do we have any lac-” but draws up short when he catches sight of the other man. 

John is standing against the sink, towel tied around his waist. He is stunning, to be sure, Sherlock has always loved his compact, strong form. But the thing that catches Sherlock’s attention are the bruises all over John’s back. 

“Boundaries,” John chides, but there’s no weight behind his words and Sherlock can’t process them anyway. 

He’s unable to stop himself from stepping forward and letting his fingertips brush over the bruises on either side of his spine, “John,” he breathes. “What happened?” He’s ready to positively murder whoever has abused the other man this way.

“What?” John asks, and Sherlock looks up to catch his gaze in the mirror. 

“The bruises,” Sherlock says, fingers lighting on a few that are on his shoulder blades.

“Oh,” John says, and his voice sounds different, breathier. He twists so he can catch a glimpse of his back in the mirror. “Henry was a little rougher than usual today,” he says with a chuckle.

Sherlock drops his hands from John’s spine, feeling like he’s intruded somewhere he ought not be. “Ah.” He turns on his heel and stomps out of the loo and toward the kitchen. Suddenly he doesn’t feel much like completing his experiment, doesn’t care whether they have lactic acid tucked away somewhere or not. Maybe he’ll just burn the livers. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is following him and when Sherlock glances over his shoulder he sees that John’s person is, too, body still only hidden by a towel, shaving cream still covering part of his face. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, contemplating whether the bruises covering John’s back are just from pleasure or something more sinister. 

“What’s going on?” 

“What? Nothing,” he answers quickly.

“Well something clearly is,” John says, his hands making a broad sweeping gesture at Sherlock’s person. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock replies coolly.

“You’ve been acting strange, especially on Thursdays, and every time I say anything about Henry, you disappear.” John shakes his head, “Look, just talk to me. What bothers you about this?” John looks down at his feet, “I know we’ve not always been good at talking, and that is largely my fault, but I want to do better.”

Sherlock is flabbergasted by this, “What am I meant to say, John?”

“Just tell me what’s bothering you.” John looks up at him, “Because this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time and I don’t want to fuck it up.” 

Sherlock’s heart feels like it’s been crushed and turned to dust. His eyes sting and his throat feels tight, because he wants John to be happy, truly he does, but his happiness is breaking him. “It’s nothing,” he manages. “I’m glad you’re happy, John, truly. It’s all I want for you.”

“Sherlock,” John says, completely at a loss. “What’s wrong?” John takes a step toward him, reaching out toward him and Sherlock breaks, a tear slipping out past his defenses. 

“It’s nothing John. I’m glad you’re happy with him.”

There’s a long pause and Sherlock stares at the floor and works at controlling his breathing.

“Yeah,” John says. “I’m confused.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up to look at him, he does indeed look confused. “What are you confused about? Is it so hard to believe that I would want you to be happy?” And honestly, that hurts almost as much because Sherlock has spent literally years of his life in the pursuit of making John Watson happy. 

“No,” John replies, “Of course not. I just don’t understand what you meant when you said ‘with him.’ Who’s him?”

Sherlock throws his arms up in the air, “Henry, of course.”

“Henry?” John asks incredulously. “What the hell does Henry have to do with anything?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stomps away. He can’t do this.

“Hey, wait a minute,” John snaps, and then he’s grasping Sherlock’s forearm to stop his movement. “Tell me what the fuck my masseur has to do with this. I swear, Sherlock, if you deduced the man I see every week is actually a serial killer and you didn’t tell me, I will bloody murder you.”

“Masseur?” Sherlock asks incredulously, turning around to look at John.

“Well, yeah,” John says, taken aback. 

“Henry is a  _ masseur?”  _

“Yes,” John repeats. “You asked me weeks ago who I was getting massages from.”

“No,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, you bloody well did,” John snaps. “Then I told you his name was Henry and you went off for a sulk.”

“No I asked you who you were dating and you told me his name was Henry.”

“What?” John asks. “Who I’m dating? Sherlock, I’m not dating anyone.”

Sherlock stares at him, “So when I said, ‘What’s her name?’...”

“I thought you were asking for the name of my masseur. I assumed you’d deduced where I’d gone to get a massage based on God only knows what and were curious about who I went to see.” John shrugs helplessly, “I thought you maybe wanted to go and get a massage.”

Sherlock stares at him and John stares back for a moment, then they both start giggling. 

“I told you,” John says through his laughter, “that face you do where you think we both know what’s going on is really fucking annoying because I  _ don’t.”  _

“I can’t believe you thought I wanted to get a massage,” Sherlock manages through what can only be described as a guffaw. 

“Don’t knock it. My therapist told me to try it and it’s the single best piece of advice I’ve ever been given in therapy.”

They stare at each other for a moment and John starts to look serious once more when he says, “Sherlock, what I wanted to talk about, what I wanted to say,” he swallows and Sherlock waits, his heart turning violently inside of his chest, “Look, I love you,” he says plainly. “That’s the long and the short of it. You infuriate me, and you push all of my buttons, and it’s still hard sometimes for me to forgive you for jumping. But I  _ love  _ you. I want you every single day of my life, you make me feel like there is a reason for me to be alive, a reason that that bullet didn’t kill me in Afghanistan. I love you and I want you in any way that you will have me. If you agreed I would marry you tomorrow.”

Sherlock stares at him, his mouth completely agape, even in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined something like this. “You love me?” he whispers. “You want to marry me?”

“Fuck,” John grunts, running his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, too much, too soon. This is why I didn’t want to say-”

Sherlock doesn’t let him finish that sentence. He grasps John’s face in his palms and kisses him. When he pulls back for breath, he murmurs, “Yes.” He brushes his nose against John’s, “Yes. I love you, too, John.”

“Yeah?” John murmurs, voice soft and a little shy. 

“Yes,” Sherlock affirms, tilting his head to press his lips to John’s once more. “And I love the sound of William Sherlock Scott Watson,” his eyes fill with tears.

John pulls him in tight against his chest and kisses him again, smearing the leftover shaving cream all over his cheeks and chin. 

Sherlock laughs and shoves at his chest, “Go finish shaving you absolute menace.”

John chuckles in reply, “Fine,” he leans in and kisses Sherlock lightly once more. “Are you still busy, or...” he trails off meaningfully, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Decidedly not busy,” Sherlock replies quickly. 

The other man grins at him before heading to the bathroom to finish shaving.  John reapplies shaving cream to his cheek still covered in stubble and leans against the sink as he starts shaving again.

He stands in the doorway, watching John shaving, marveling at the fact that he’s allowed to do this now, apparently. “I can’t believe Henry is a masseur,” Sherlock says with a shake of his head.

John glances at him in the mirror, “Henry is a very decent bloke. His wife is obsessed with you.”

“His wife?” Sherlock asks, affronted by how very wrong he was. He didn’t have much to go on, but still.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “It’s kind of hot,” he says apropos to nothing, “the jealousy thing you’ve got going on there.”

“Jealousy thing?” he splutters. “I’m not jealous.”

“But you were,” John sing-songs with a smirk.

“Well, you were first,” Sherlock replies. “Irene, Janine, Moriarty, and you wouldn’t even admit that you are gay.”

“M’not gay,” John replies as he carefully shaves over his top lip, the final piece of his face remaining. “I’m bi,” he wets a flannel and pats his face, before drying. “I hate all three of them,” he says easily, walking over and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “But I still think you were jealous first, with Sarah.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “I had no idea I was in love with you then.”

“Maybe not, but you still were,” John says confidently, leaning up to catch Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. 

He huffs against John’s mouth but can’t help the way his body melts into the other man’s. “I don’t understand how you thought that I wanted to get a massage.”

“Massages are actually pretty bloody fantastic. I was skeptical at first, too, but don’t knock them until you try them.”

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head.

“Don’t believe me? Let me show you. I won’t be as good as Henry, but you’ll probably enjoy it just the same,” he says with a wink. “Go on, strip down to your pants and I’ll show you.”

“You just want to get me undressed,” Sherlock accuses with a grin. 

John waggles his eyebrows, “That’s not entirely untrue. But I do sincerely want you to understand why I enjoy massages.”

Sherlock huffs but starts unbuttoning his shirt. John watches with rapt attention until Sherlock says, “Does Henry watch you undress like that? Because if he doesn’t I’m going to have to demand that you stop seeing him for massages.”

A surprised chuckle slips past John’s lips, he shakes his head, “Of course he doesn’t.” Sherlock follows him with his eyes as he turns away toward Sherlock’s dresser, drops his towel completely unselfconsciously, and opens Sherlock’s pants drawer. “You don’t mind if I borrow a pair, do you?” he asks innocently, as he glances over his shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s heart is hammering in his chest and he opens his mouth, then closes it, then manages, “Screw the massage. Get over here, you absurdly gorgeous man.”

His mouth stretches out into a wide grin and he pulls out a pair of black briefs from Sherlock’s drawer. “Patience,” he says. “Finish getting undressed, my arse can’t be that distracting.”

“Have you seen it?” Sherlock asks as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and divests himself of his trousers. 

“Ooh, you are going to be good for my ego,” John hums as he stalks across the room and pushes Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. He presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock tries to follow his mouth when he draws back. “Face down on the bed,” he chides with a gentle nip to Sherlock’s lower lip.

He wants to protest, he really does, but honestly? He would give John anything, do anything that John asks him to. So, with a sigh, he drops himself onto his bed, cushioning his face in the pillows. 

There’s the sound of lotion being pumped out, then John is climbing on the bed and straddling Sherlock’s hips with his strong thighs. 

Sherlock holds in a groan, but only just. “Is this how you get massages?” he manages.

“No,” John murmurs, he leans down and brushes a kiss against the knob at the base of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock shudders in response. “But I figured that I could give you a little special treatment.”

He would have replied, but then John’s hands are on him, smoothing down Sherlock’s back on either side of his spine before circling back to the top once more, setting his skin alight and tingling. “Nuh,” he grunts. John’s lotion slicked hands glide over his back and sides, brushing over his ribs and then back inward toward his spine.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” John says. His hands slide upward further, cupping Sherlock’s neck as his thumbs press upward and out when they reach the base of his skull. He keeps rubbing his neck with his thumbs, gentle circles that somehow make Sherlock’s entire spine tingle.

His fingers tease the strands of hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull, tugging lightly as they detangle. Then he continues to rub lower and lower, circling down his back with the flats of his palms until he’s just above Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock holds his breath, as the heels of John’s hands press into the divots at the base of his spine and he silently wills his hands to stray lower. It makes Sherlock dizzy, the strength of his desire for John's hands to slip lower and touch his buttocks.

“Breathe,” John instructs softly and his hands slide back up Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock exhales, letting out a breath he hadn’t quite realized he’d been holding. John rubs his palms up and down Sherlock’s back, smoothing out the muscles and making his skin tingle. His body feels like it's floating, the sensation is so strange and out of place that he can't help but marvel at it.

John continues on this way, rubbing and massaging Sherlock’s back and sides, his hands drift a hair lower on every pass until his thumbs are brushing the top of Sherlock’s buttocks and he can feel himself growing fully hard. The quiet of the room is disrupted by the moan he lets out when the heels of John’s hands press against his lower back, stretching muscles that are sore from leaning over the microscope and cow liver experiment all day.

“That’s it,” John breathes. And the tone of John’s voice makes a soft groan of pleasure slip from Sherlock’s throat. “Yeah,” John murmurs, leaning forward to peck a quick kiss to the base of his neck, and Sherlock can feel John’s semi-hard cock press against his arse. 

He groans and his hips press back toward John, rolling so he can feel John’s hot length pressed against him through both of their pants.

John exhales heavily against his neck then pushes himself upright once more, “You are so hot.” 

Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder, trying to roll over.

“Hey,” John says, nudging him back onto his stomach. “You’re supposed to be enjoying a massage.”

He groans but obeys, dropping his head back on the pillows. John leans over and pumps another squirt of lotion on his hands before bringing them back to Sherlock’s back once more. Sherlock can’t help the soft moans that slip from his lips as John strokes his hands tenderly over his skin. 

The two of them are quiet for a long time and Sherlock is in awe of the way he can _feel_ John's affection bleeding through his touch and into Sherlock's skin. He feels like he was a desert and John's touch is the desperately needed rain, something in his soul settles as he lays there and allows John to touch him, to show him his love.

“I never could have imagined this,” he says eventually, when the emotions are swirling thick through his veins and making him long for more.

“I know, right?” John replies as his hands caress Sherlock’s shoulders and all the way down his arms. “Massages are great.”

Sherlock snorts, “Not that. Although this is  _ very _ enjoyable. I meant this. Us. You just told me that you love me.”

“I do,” John says, and he sounds borderline giddy. “And you just agreed to marry me,” he says with a laugh.

And at those words, Sherlock can’t take it anymore, he rolls over and drags John’s body on top of his, pressing their lips together.

John hums against his lips and settles his body on top of Sherlock’s, slotting his legs between Sherlock’s thighs. 

“John,” he gasps as their erections rub against one another’s.

“Yes,” John agrees, his fingers slide inside of Sherlock’s pants and tug at the waistband. 

The two of them wiggle and kick their way out of their pants until they are naked and pressed against one another. 

Sherlock tilts his head back and John seizes the opportunity to kiss and suck at his neck. He groans and his head slips to the side to allow John more room. The other man sucks at the skin just below his ear and Sherlock’s hips snap up against John’s in response. 

“So responsive,” John moans as he sucks Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth and flicks at it with his tongue.

For his part, Sherlock barely manages an “Nnngh,” in reply and his fingers clench tightly around John’s hips, pressing his groin firmly against Sherlock’s own. 

John rolls his hips tantalizingly slowly against Sherlock’s, sending waves of glorious pleasure radiating through his body. “It shouldn’t be possible for frotting to feel this good,” John groans, his mouth now taking up residence on Sherlock’s collarbone where it licks and sucks.

His right hand slips into John’s hair, stroking through the downy soft strands. 

“Has frotting ever felt this good to you? Am I just that head over heels for you?” John asks, pulling back slightly to look at Sherlock’s face.

“I have a very limited sample size,” Sherlock replies, feeling his cheeks heat up.

John’s hips slow to a stop and Sherlock whines at him in protest, “Sherlock, last night... Was that your?” he trails off and bites his lip.

“First time?” Sherlock supplies, “Yes. But let’s not make a big deal of it, shall we?”

“You should have said,” John says softly. “I would have-”

Sherlock presses a kiss to his lips to stop the flow of words. “Last night was the single most spectacular experience of my entire life. Well,” he amends, “except you asking to marry me.”

“Sap,” John accuses teasingly.

“So,” Sherlock says, “I’ve never wanted anyone before you and I don’t regret a thing about last night and you shouldn’t either."

"I love you," John murmurs. "I could never regret making love to you."

"I love you, too," Sherlock says, tipping his head up to capture John's lips in a sweet kiss. When he pulls back he says, "Now roll your hips again, that also felt rather spectacular.”

With a groan, John complies, “You’ve never wanted anyone before?” he murmurs.

“No,” Sherlock replies, stroking a thumb over John’s cheekbone, “Only you.”

“You are like every wet dream I have ever had rolled into one.” John sits up slightly and looks down the planes of their bodies to where their cocks are rubbing together. 

Sherlock follows his gaze down so he can watch, too. John rolls his hips and Sherlock watches his cock drag over his, smearing the precome leaking from his slit over both of their cocks. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” John agrees, reaching between their bodies so he can grasp his cock and trail it along Sherlock’s more purposefully. 

It’s the most arousing thing Sherlock has ever seen, John's cock trailing along his. John carries on like this for what could be minutes or could be hours and Sherlock’s cock gets even harder, the foreskin has drawn back entirely, and his cock has started twitching every time John trails the head of his cock over the head of Sherlock’s.

“You’re so beautiful,” John breathes and Sherlock looks up and realizes that John has been watching his face this entire time. 

“John,” he sighs, “More.”

“Yes,” John says, “Get some lube or lotion, whatever’s easiest.”

Sherlock reaches over to the nightstand and pumps some lotion on his hand, “Here,” he says, trying to wipe it on John’s hand and getting ready to roll over on his knees.

John shakes his head, “Like this,” he whispers and he draws Sherlock’s hand down to their cocks, “Hold both of us in your fist,” he instructs. 

Sherlock wraps his hand around their members, not quite able to reach the entire way around but John’s hand closes the gap, his fingers lacing with Sherlock’s and guiding him to start moving. They moan in tandem at the slick slide of their erections against one another’s.

“Perfect,” John groans, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

It’s intense, more intense than Sherlock could have ever anticipated, and soon his hips are rolling with the motion of their hands. “John,” he gasps, “I don’t think-” he breaks off to moan. “I can’t-”

“It’s alright, love,” John murmurs. “Come on, you’re perfect.”

“John,” he whimpers, hips thrusting as he blindly chases his release, his body spiraling higher and higher as his thrusts become more erratic. 

“I love you,” John breathes in his ear, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

Sherlock keens as he comes, his body tensing tight, tight, tight before everything releases and he loses himself in the flood of oxytocin and endorphins. 

“So beautiful,” John groans, and somehow his fingers have come to be wrapped around only Sherlock’s cock as he strokes him through his orgasm. 

John kisses him softly, sweet pecks of his lips across Sherlock's cheeks and the bridge of his nose, his chin and jaw, before landing on his lips.

He gives himself a moment to breathe, inhaling the scent of their combined arousal, and then he reaches down and grasps John’s erection, groaning at the heat of the velvety smooth skin in his hand. With a bit of effort, he rolls the two of them so they’re lying on their sides and Sherlock has a little more room to maneuver. “Tell me what you like.”

“You,” John replies, and it’s so earnest that Sherlock doesn’t doubt the sincerity in his voice.

He leans forward and presses their lips together, “Can you come from this?”

“From your hand on my cock?” John asks incredulously, “Of course.”

“John-” he starts.

“Tighten your grip just a little bit,” he says, obviously understanding Sherlock’s uncertainty. “Yeah,” he groans as Sherlock does just that. “A little twist at the end,” he adds. 

Sherlock obeys and is gratified to hear the low groan John’s throat emits. 

“So good,” he says. “Look at me,” he requests.

Sherlock looks up from John’s cock and into his eyes. He’s lost for a moment in how much he can see in them, all of the desire, the love plain as the nose on his face. He can’t help but wonder if it’s been there all along.

He twists his wrist slightly so that his thumb can rub over John's frenulum on every pass and John groans, "Yes. So good."

When John closes his eyes to enjoy the sensations, Sherlock looks back down at his hand moving over John's cock and is overwhelmed by the desire to taste him. Without stopping the way he's stroking John's cock, he slides down the bed until he is eye level with John's cock. He sticks his tongue out and licks over the slit where precome is beading. 

"Sherlock," John groans and one of his hands slides into Sherlock's curls, caressing his scalp. 

He shifts closer and licks a little more broadly over the head of the other man's cock before sliding his mouth over the head and tonguing at the plummy flesh there. He moans as John's precome leaks into his mouth, bursting over his tongue. 

"Sherlock," John gasps, "That feels so good. You can just focus on the head, if you want," John assures. "Just keep pumping the rest of my cock with your fist and suck on the head," he encourages.

So Sherlock does just that, sucking and swirling his tongue around the head of John's cock. 

John's hips twitch slightly, "I'm going to come, sweetheart," he moans, tugging gently at Sherlock's curls but Sherlock doesn't plan to go anywhere. 

He sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks and stroking his tongue along the underside of John's cock, rolling and pressing against his frenulum. 

"Fuck," John grunts. "Yes, Sherlock. Don't stop," he begs, "Don't stop." He groans raggedly and his hips jerk forward minutely as he comes. "Fuck," he breathes. 

He fills Sherlock's mouth and some spills over as Sherlock tries to swallow, moaning at the way it feels to have John's cock pulsing and twitching in his mouth. When John stills, Sherlock sits up and delicately wipes the come from the corner of his mouth.

"Come here," John groans, flopping over onto his back and reaching out for him.

Sherlock willingly complies, settling his cheek against John's chest and listening to the way his heart slows down.

“I love you,” John says softly.

“I love you too,” Sherlock replies. He looks down John's body at where his soft cock is lying nestled in his pubic hair and can't stop himself from reaching down to trail his forefinger lovingly along his flesh.

“Sherlock,” he groans, rolling into him and flipping their positions, pressing Sherlock back over onto his back so he can bury his face in Sherlock's neck. “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock trails his fingers over John’s back, tracing the scar on his shoulder with gentle fingers. John sighs softly against him and brushes his thumb back and forth over the divot on Sherlock’s chest. 

“I can’t believe you asked me to marry you,” Sherlock whispers, pulling back slightly to look at John and returning to the topic that led to such lovely frotting. 

“Are you kidding?” he asks, propping his chin up on Sherlock’s chest so he can look at him. “I never want to spend another day away from you for the rest of my life. My death, too, for that matter.”

“Mmm, even after death, hmm? Don’t vows typically say 'until death do us part'?”

John bumps their noses together, “Since when have we ever done anything the traditional way?”

“Excellent point," Sherlock concedes. "Then I expect your vows to say united through all eternity.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” John kisses him softly, “from now through all eternity.”


End file.
